All For Her
by Froody
Summary: The ALW story changes dramatically on the roof of the Opera House when Christine shows some compassion for the lonely Opera Ghost. *EC*
1. Murder

**A/N: Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of what is going to be a heavily E/C story! I'm hoping you don't mind that I start off with that dreadfully R/C scene on the roof of the Opera House, but never mind, Christine actually shows some compassion in this story. Please read and review, because as this is a serious fic, I really want to hear how I can improve my writing, or the story. Thanks guys! Here's to a new story- cheers. **

_He killed that man. He killed that man. He killed that man for _me.

The terrible mantra beat out an endless, pitiless tattoo in Christine's head until she almost buckled over. The high, terrified screams from the stage, from the audience were almost completely overwhelmed by this single thought, all surrounding sounds and sights all blurring into one whirling, nauseating stream of colour.

Her small face was white as the snow outside, gliding along its meandering paths, then dropping gently to rest on the eaves. Her body was utterly still, like the resting snowflakes, but her tumultuous thoughts held none of their peaceful serenity.

She started, as a man's rough hand gripped her shoulder, and jerked backwards, still unseeing, wrapped up in the slowly dawning comprehension of her part in this terrible play.

"Christine, come with me!" he yelled harshly, voice full of bravado and suppressed fear.

It was Raoul.

She blinked, and the world slowly, sickeningly, fell back into focus. She didn't protest as he dragged her out of the general confusion backstage, but ran along behind him. She wrenched her arm out of her grasp once they had finally exited the wings, and directed him up to the roof, wanting to gain some control of herself. Christine needed some control, over something. She had no control over the dreadful situation, the realisation that she was facing.

Her angel… the _man_ who had pretended to be an angel… the Phantom… the strange, horrifying, angry, lost, heartbroken, pitiful _man_, full of love for _her_ and no one else. He had done this.

_What horrors have driven this misguided soul to commit such an act? What utter desperation? And am I to blame for the death of the stagehand?_

Christine could not rest her chaotic mind on any conclusion, in the least about her angel of the past lonely years. He had never harmed her in any physical way, or caused her to believe that he was some kind of heartless devil, a murderer.

But a murderer he was! Christine had been brought up a Catholic; she knew the ten Commandments by heart, she believed in Hell; she knew the sins which once committed paved a fiery path for their sinners.

Was it pity? Was it pity she was feeling for this evil devil hiding behind a cold white mask? A mask of death?

Christine clapped her hands to her ears violently, desperately trying to claw the mess away. What was she to think? Was he a monster after all? Did he deserve eternal damnation? She didn't even know the man!

As she finally burst through the small wooden door at the top of the highest staircase, a small, rickety, hardly ever used exit onto the roof of the Opera House, she inhaled heavy breaths of the bitterly cold air, needing to clear her head, to escape the fearful, deafening atmosphere of the Opera House.

She leant back a little, eyes closed, soaking in the stillness, the blessed relief of the cold. Surely the Phantom, a dweller of all places dark, dank and cavernous, Master of Trapdoors, would not dare come out to such an open place, so close to the Heaven which must have rejected him, so far from the Hell which he had created…

As she relaxed, and silenced her overwrought mind, she suddenly remembered Raoul, and began to hear his words, realise what he was trying to tell her.

"Forget the Phantom of the Opera!" The man breathed heavily, earnestly trying to reassure her, his eyes pleading for her to regain some of the sanity which she must have lost to be entertaining such wild notions.

Raoul was an aristocrat, brought up in a warm, rich household with all that he ever asked for, surrounded by love, pampered by his aunts and sisters. Although his parents had died when Raoul was young, he had always had others watching over him, filling the empty parental roles and showering him with love.

Christine suddenly hated the Viscomte for it, for all the things that he had taken for granted during childhood. How could this sheltered young man ever begin to comprehend the horrors that other, less fortunate people had suffered?

Her eyes widened slightly as she noted her own hypocrisy. How did her own suffering compare to the Phantom's life of loneliness? What could drive a man to seek solace, or acceptance, from a young girl? The Phantom's very _life_ must have been dictated by her; planning her lessons, keeping up the appearance of an angel, writing songs for her…. He wasted his genius on her.

But as Christine stood there, glaring at Raoul, she forcedly thrust her compassion to the back of her mind. The look on Raoul's face reminded her of the blind horror that the general populace felt for the murderer with the broken wings of an angel. Murder was not acceptable, not even for those deserving of such pity that Christine felt for them. Murderers do not have excuses! Not even lonely, abandoned geniuses full of desperate love…

The woman could not bring herself to voice any verdict on her opinion of the Phantom. She focussed on the one thing that she could prove to another, that she could prove to herself.

"Raoul, I've been there! To his world of unending night. To a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness… darkness. Raoul, I've seen him! Can I ever forget that sight? Can I ever escape from that face? So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face, in that darkness… darkness."

She closed her eyes briefly and blinked away tears.

What monster was she, how shallow had she become during her years amongst the ballet rats, that she judged others by their outward appearances? But it was a point that she knew Raoul would understand, and she needed to be believed by someone else, someone stable.

Christine almost felt a whisper of sorrow caressing her curls, the stunted, unbelieving gasp of the betrayed.

She turned sharply to look behind her, splaying her brown hair across her back, sprinkling snowflakes to the soft banks of snow already formed on the roof. She squeezed her fingers to her palm in nervous anticipation, and suddenly realised that she still held a rose from the Phantom in her hand. She brought her trembling hand to her breast, and lowered her head, breathing in the proof of her former angel's love, and existence. What was she doing to him? And was he even here, watching her now, abandoned once more by his solitary comfort?

She wished it were not so. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sent a prayer of forgiveness to the Phantom, wherever he was now. She did not mean what she was saying to Raoul, she was just saying it, like the Phantom hadn't really been full of malicious intent while he murdered Buquet above the stage.

Both of them were simply desperate, hanging on for some form of understanding from another human being. She opened her eyes slowly and gazed out from the sparkling roof to the dark streets below. Wishing he was here for her now. Wishing he'd emerge from his shadows and tiptoe once more into the light of acceptance and love. Light which she was willing to provide.

She felt she finally understood the poor phantom of a man.

As Christine felt arms encircle her from behind, she shut her eyes with an overjoyed expectancy. But she felt none of the magic, the warmth, or the passion that her angel always provided for her. Distraught, she opened her eyes and gazed back upon the man she knew must be behind her. It was with a fond sadness that she looked back at Raoul. She turned around to face him, and winced gently as she heard his tender, comforting reassurances. His eyes held promises of safety in years to come, of security and family and society and, yes, money.

Christine could feel no anger towards her companion now. They had indeed been childhood sweethearts, in as innocent terms as could be, but they had grown apart over years of separation, and separate heartbreaks. Perhaps Raoul could not understand what had changed between them, but Christine could. When they had met, and created their friendship, all those long years ago, Christine had had a father, his stories and his music.

She had lost all of these now, except for the music. Raoul was in probability precisely the man he was going to become on the path his brother, the Comte de Chagny, had laid out for him. Christine had changed entirely after her father's death, and her future was still uncertain. The only certainty she had about the years to come was that they would be full of music.

Christine's eyes filled with compassion and friendship as she gazed upon her friend. She loved this man with all her heart, but only as a brother. She needed more than comfort and security to fill her life. She needed passion that Raoul simply couldn't provide her with. She needed the inspiration and magic in her music that only one person could give her.

As Christine leant forward, towards Raoul and his eager face, her sharply acute ears detected a muffled moan of agony from behind a nearby golden statue of Apollo. She cringed inwardly at the pain she must be causing to her nearby observer, but she knew that what she was about to do was the right thing for all of them.

Her lips gently met with Raoul's cheek in a fond, friendly kiss. She reached up and grasped his arm with the hand not occupied by the treasured rose. She looked solidly into the young man's disappointed, questioning eyes.

"I'll always love you, my friend. But I have changed over these years. I am no longer just a lost little girl who needs protection. I have found my anchor, and I'm safe enough knowing that."

In those few sentences, Christine truly grew up, and in accepting responsibility for herself, became a woman. The formerly shy, timid girl, full of worry and self-doubt had disappeared forever.

Raoul cleared his throat in surprise, and shook his head with confusion. The man was not used to such forward rejection.

"Christine, you do not expect me to just leave you here alone with all the dangers you face? Surely you would welcome protection from that monster, who has already tried once to claim you for himself?"

A smile briefly lit Christine's serious face, and she squeezed Raoul's arm a little tighter.

"Of course not, my friend. I expect you to protect me as much as any friend would. But I also expect you to let me make my own decisions." She paused, completely serious now. "Find a girl who's made for society, Raoul." She laughed humourlessly. "I've been living in an Opera House for years. I sing on a stage and entertain crowds. What kind of wife would I make for the brother of the Comte de Chagny?"

"But Christine… I _love_ you!" he pleaded desperately, not accepting her reasoning. He grabbed her face and looked earnestly into her averted eyes, willing her to understand.

But she understood more than he did.

"Raoul, we have not seen each other since we were children. You do not love me! How could you? You have only truly known me for a few days! You think you love me, but you love an idea, a memory."

Christine stopped, turned from Raoul and ground her nails deep into her palm in dreaded realisation of her own duplicity. She stared blankly at the statue of Apollo before her, and slowly filled with self-doubt. She herself had only known the truth behind her 'angel' for the same length of time that Raoul had known her. Did she love him?

She stopped her thoughts before they went any further, shocked by her use of the word 'love'. This masked stranger murdered a man mere minutes ago. How could she ever consider the concept of love connecting her and her terrible deceiver?

She turned quickly as she heard the wooden door leading back into the hectic warmth of the Opera House slam; Raoul had left her there, alone on the roof. But Christine knew she wasn't alone.

She leant against the base of another statue facing Apollo and waited, folding her warm cape more securely around her. Her fingers unconsciously plucked first one petal, then another from the rose in her hand. Her downcast eyes noted the blood-red petals scattered upon the snow-spattered roof, and she stopped her busy fingers immediately.

She wanted to know the terrible secrets behind the mysterious man in the mask.

She wanted to cure them both of eternal loneliness.

She waited.


	2. Music

**A/N: Damn and curse all of you wonderful reviewers:) Your kind encouragements forced me to give in and release this second chapter slightly earlier than  
I had intended. Hope you enjoy it! Includes a cameo of the Phantom's lair! Please continue reviewing the story, it inspires me.

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**

Minutes passed, and as the hands of the clock slowly rotated, the night breathed a more deathly winter cold onto the roof. Christine shivered violently, but stayed there by the statue, waiting.

There had been no further sign of her angel after Raoul had left, no sounds or music or unexplained shadows. She knew he was still there, however. He was behind the statue of Apollo's Lyre, avoiding her for some unknown reason. She had sent the Viscomte on his way, hadn't she? She had remained faithful to a man she was not even promised to.

Finally, too cold to remain on the roof for any longer, Christine gathered her damp, half-frozen skirts and stood up. She bowed her head for a moment, wondering whether to be so bold as to check behind the statue before she left. When she looked up, she released a piercing scream.

There he was, the Phantom, the unmasked side of his face as expressionless as the other. He had moved in that extraordinary way of his, silent as a cat. She had not even heard the swish of his coat, or the crunch of his footsteps in the snow as he had approached her.

She glanced behind his intimidating figure for proof that he didn't just fly onto the roof from the heavens. A trail of heavy footsteps led from behind the statue of Apollo to where he stood now.

_Angel indeed_.

She almost smiled, then stopped herself, realising that to laugh would be a hideous mistake. The Phantom did not look to be in a humorous mood.

Christine straightened her back and composed herself, even allowing the folds of her cape to fall back from where they had been wrapped tightly around her as she relaxed her hands by her side. But she could not stop her teeth from chattering any more than she could turn the colour of her lips back to a healthy non-blue hue.

"You're cold," the Phantom noted with that ethereal voice of his. Even at that simple sentence Christine could feel her eyelids begin to flicker, as all her muscles seized up in some strange anticipation.

"You're too cold," he continued with some quiet alarm as his piercing eyes detected Christine's less than proper behaviour. She swooned a little as she continued to fall under his gaze, until under his gaze she did indeed fall. The Phantom cursed as he caught the woman's fainting body, and gathering her up lovingly for the second time since they'd met face to face, stormed back through the quickest passages of the Opera House to his lair.

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It was with the strangest sense of déjà vu that Christine awoke from her faint. Before opening her eyes, her head still dizzy and disoriented from her collapse, her ears detected a familiar little melody clanging out of the blackness around her. 

As soon as she remembered where she had previously heard the song, her eyes shot open. There she was, just as she had been the first time, in the swan bed, cloaked from the outer room by a filmy black veil. She sat up slowly, and was surprised to find her limbs swathed in thick blankets.

Gently removing first one leg then the other from beneath the warm blankets, she was relieved to find that this time she had managed to keep her stockings on.

She raised herself quietly from the bed and pulled open the black veil, half-expecting to see the Phantom leaning against a nearby wall, watching her. However, this visit was disconcertingly like her previous one, and the masked man was nowhere in sight. Steadying herself, she padded through the room and turned the corner, fully anticipating the sight of the Phantom sitting at his organ to greet her.

But this time he was not there.

Christine's breath quickened with edgy expectation. Where could he be? She glanced over the remainder of the organ room quickly but found it empty of her angel. Christine, still too timid in these intimidating surroundings to call out for the Phantom, ran silently through the adjoining rooms, casting her gaze hurriedly over the contents of each. There was a bathroom, a rough kitchen, a room simply bursting with manuscripts and instruments and a room that seemed to be dedicated to her.

Christine stared, open-mouthed with disbelief, at the sight which greeted her from this last room. In stark contrast with the rest of the place, this room was austerely neat and tidy. Filling every crevice, every corner, hanging from the walls and windows, were portraits, statues, dolls, paintings, sketches- _all _of _her_! She backed out, overwhelmed, a hand clapped firmly to her mouth in amazement.

Unable to consider what the existence of such a room could mean for her, and for her ingenious captor, she hurried back to the main organ room and decided to call for him. She opened her mouth- and snapped it shut in bewilderment.

Who could she call for? The names she had for the masked man died on her lips as she deemed them all unsuitable. She couldn't call 'Phantom', or 'Opera ghost', or even 'Angel'; all these names no longer fitted the man whom she had come to share a strange connection with.

_Who is this man?_

This important query masked all of Christine's other worries and questions as she stood there in confusion. Impulsively, she decided to make use of her solitary time by searching for an answer to that question.

Padding slowly over to the piles of paper on the organ, glancing furtively around for any signs of movement, Christine softly cast her eyes over the mass of manuscripts for anything that looked like it could be informative.

Music, music, music… there was nothing but music written on the hastily shuffled papers; fugues, fantasies, sonatas, minuets… And it was all original! Christine's eyes widened in astonishment as she noted the same scrawl signing every piece, the same scribbled handwriting marking the dynamics and directions of the music. _Crescendo, larghetto, allegretto_… it was all purely this one man!

He was indeed a genius, she realised, hands shaking slightly as she marvelled at the brilliance of it. What on earth was a man of his enormous talent doing, stuck underground in a solitary self-imprisonment? Why was he wasting his precious time yearning for _her_?

Picking up a score at random, Christine laid the manuscript on the organ stand, and pressed the first note into the correct key with one trembling finger. She stood there and sight-read the first few bars, singing as clearly and strongly as she did on stage, basking in the glory of the sounds as they flew into perfectly structured, beautiful place. Her bafflement for the Phantom's situation grew with each note.

She did not hear the man himself enter the room in the boat, paddling himself deftly through the glassy water. She did not see the way his eyes popped at this extraordinary sight, at the miraculousness of his angel voluntarily singing songs he had written. His legs shook as he stepped out of the boat, but he somehow managed to stay silent. He was as entranced as Christine was by the sound of his songs coming to life.

It was only when the Phantom spontaneously added a harmony to the song that Christine realised he was there. Her voice faltered and stopped in apprehension as she twirled around to see him, but he kept singing, walking numbly towards her. When he finally reached the motionless woman, his eyes gazing directly into hers, he stopped a metre away and stood there stiffly, until he had finished the verse.

Afterwards, they remained unmoving, looking deeply into the other's eyes, neither of them daring to break their silence with speech.

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**A/A/N: Now, for responses to the reviews I have received so far! **

**StarrySpark: Glad you liked it! Hopefully I can maintain the WOWness of the story. :)**

**HisPhantomess: Continuing I am! (With green eggs and ham... I feel like Dr Seuss...) Glad you like it too!**

**Erik's Secret Admirer: More of the same to you! I like your name, though if it were me, I'd delete the 'secret' part. :)**

**PhantomFan07: Yours was one of the reviews which made me release this next chapter so soon. Feel the shame. :)**

**Amita: Don't worry, I share the whole euphoria thing with the lack of Raoul. I can't say whether he'll stay away forever though... I have to consult my brain...**

**Mira-Jade: Another review which got me going. Thank you!**

**Faust: Yay, I recognise your name from reviewing another of my stories. (Would that be Angel of Mute?) I know this is a completely different story to that one, which is really mostly an outlet for me being stupid, but I hope I can write serious fics well too! And no, this isn't my first story- it's my latest, and I hope I've done good with the whole E/C thing so far. Uh oh, I not do grammar too good. Me fail english? That's unpossible!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Yay, my first reviewer- you get a special black-ribboned rose with a spray of Eau d'Erik- feel proud. And thank you. (Wait a sec, doesn't Erik smell like death? Sorry:))**

**Thanks guys, and everyone else in the future who WILL review. This means YOU- I feel a bit like those advertisement things for Uncle Sam- We Want You (or whatever). :)**


	3. Name

**A/N: And here we are. Chapter number three. I feel like I've written so much more of this story than three chapters. Hopefully that's just the ideas bubbling within me, eager to be released. :) Anyway, enjoy!

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The Phantom was the first to recover from the magic they'd woven between themselves, and cleared his throat, breaking the charm that kept them silent. He seemed different this time, Christine noted. Upon their first meeting, the Phantom had been the ultimate seducer, barely saying a word, just singing, intoxicating her senses with his masterful voice. He had worn a mask of confidence, as well as the white mask he always wore, and used this bravado to completely overpower any of Christine's usual inhibitions.

Both masks had disappeared entirely when Christine had foolishly satisfied her curiosity. She would not do such a thing again.

This time the Phantom was plainly very much a man, as human as any other person in the Opera House. His self-contempt and barely-suppressed fears were all on show, and it wrenched Christine's heart painfully to see his devastating emotions laid so bare.

She crept forward, almost imperceptibly, her eyes wide and her arm slightly extended, perhaps to touch his arm, or give him some form of comfort. But the broken man backed away immediately, like a mutt that had been beaten with a broom when it was a puppy, and then approached by one later on.

Christine's heart almost broke at the realisation that she had caused him such pain. He was a full-grown man, and still cowered at the thought of his face laid bare once more.

The Phantom switched his face back into its blank, glaring mask. The white side of his face almost looked more kindly. He exuded a sense of inner strength, dredged up from some unknown point of courage deep within his psyche. Christine realised that he was putting on this show for her; he did not want her to see the vulnerability lying just beneath the surface. Like most men, he couldn't bear to lose that last piece of dignity.

She sucked down a pitying sigh, and backed away slightly, bowing her head, letting him have a little space. Her vision was slightly blurred, tears having gathered swiftly to accompany her sympathy for this man.

Not able to fully set aside her inquisitiveness, and also just at a loss of other things to say, Christine looked back up and into the waiting, apprehensive eyes of her former angel.

"What is your name?"

The Phantom balked physically from her question; it seemed that whatever he was expecting, it had not been this. He gathered himself up once more and when he spoke it was with a steady voice.

"Erik."

Christine smiled warmly as she felt a sense of accomplishment, almost like she had stepped up another level in their relationship. The concealed tears fought their way back to fill her eyes, and if it had been any other person, Christine would have given them a hug.

But the Phantom- Erik- was not the hugging kind, at least not on the surface, and Christine felt that if she tried anything, he'd shy away, like the mistreated mutt.

How different this visit to the lair had proven to be already! She had arrived in the same kind of fashion, without her direct consent or knowledge of where she was being taken, they had shared an indescribable moment after singing together, combining their voices and drawing out some of the passion that lay seething between them, but now there seemed to be some level of harsh mistrust forming a barrier between them.

Suddenly Christine was terribly frightened. All she knew of this man that she was standing alone in a room with was that his name was Erik. Everything else about his being was hidden covertly, deftly. He was not going to offer any explanation for his actions. He would not betray the secrets he had been keeping for years.

Erik stiffened, aware of her sudden withdrawal from him, and her fear. His eyes clouded briefly, like he was inwardly wincing at her obvious lack of trust in him. He still had not spoken a word.

"Please show me to my dressing room," Christine stated firmly, her eyes steady as she stared her intimidating companion down. He would not be ordered around, however; but tonight it seemed like he would do as she wished.

Christine trembled as one shining black glove was silently offered to her once more, and grasped it with her dainty little fingers apprehensively. The contact, although marred by material, effectively silenced her, and she could do nothing but stare at her escort, shocked, and not a little intrigued by the power he held over her.

Erik gave no outward signs of his pleasure at his authority over the young woman, but it seemed that his stride became more confident as they walked through dark passageways, up staircases, through endless doors and tapestries. He bowed to Christine as they reached the end of their journey, and gestured her to step through the black hole where her mirror ought to be. She turned back once safely within her dressing room, perhaps to give him thanks, or some kind of reprimand even, for having taken advantage of her. But he was gone, the mirror having somehow noiselessly slid back into place.

She gazed deeply into the mirror, trying to see through to the man she knew was probably just on the other side, but only saw her own pale face. She flushed as she noted the wide yearning in her eyes, and blinked rapidly, turning from the mirror.

She reached for a candle in the filtered moonlight that seeped viscously through the small window high on a wall. Suddenly frightened of the dark, she frantically lit a match, held it to the wilted wick and sped over to the door.

Stepping into the corridor, she heard nothing but silence- nothing unusual for this late hour in this section of the Opera House, but still eerie enough to send Christine racing down the shadowed passageways and back to the warmer, familiar dormitories. She fled to the open doorway of her dormitory, and leant against the frame, gasping with relief, as she eagerly took in the sight of her friend Meg waiting anxiously on her bed.

"Where on earth have you been?" Meg screeched softly, pattering quickly over to her friend. "_Maman_ has been searching high and low throughout the Opera House for you ever since Buquet made that dreadful appearance in our ballet!"

Christine's blood froze in her veins as she stared, shocked, into her friend's worried eyes. She had forgotten that the Phantom had killed, and just this night!

Meg grasped her arm in steady reassurance, not needing to understand her friend's troubles, just wanting to offer support. Christine smiled faintly in acknowledgement of her friend's loving solidity. Although the girl was simple, and quite frankly naïve, she always tried to help, even if she ended up making Christine feel crazier than she had when she'd started.

"Thanks Meg, but I'm fine, truly I am!"

A figure suddenly appeared in the doorway behind the two girls upon these words.

"Christine, my child, you've returned." Madame Giry placed her hands on her hips as she visibly relaxed, somehow creating an even more intimidating figure, short and sweet though she seemed.

Christine looked from one woman to the other as she frowned, confused at their obvious distress for her safety. "Did Raoul not mention where we had been when he came back down here?"

Meg raised her eyebrows at the mention of the Viscomte, but Madame Giry was not nearly so forward. "I saw the Viscomte leaving the Opera House in a fine hurry a couple of hours ago, but even if you had been with him before that, you would have returned long ago."

The imperious woman leant forward slightly, perhaps to shield her daughter from her next words, and breathed an alarming sentence into Christine's ear:

"You have been with Erik, haven't you?"

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**A/N: Oooh, rather enticing ending, no? **

**StarrySpark: Thanks for the review! Hopefully I can keep the standard of the chapters up- they're getting slightly more difficult to write though… :)**

**HeidiHo: Thanks for the comment! Encouragement is always good. And wow… we share the same daydreams… :)**

**Mira-Jade: Lol, this isn't my first fic! It's like my third or fourth PoTO phic! (Feel free to hunt down and read the rest. ;)) But I appreciate the support. :) Okay, so maybe I kind of made Christine's character a little weaker than I could have… but she fainted for Erik this time! He's worth fainting for! Thanks for the review.**

**Ambidextrous-angel: Yay! My story has the Phantom Factor! I feel honoured! And don't worry; all my wonderful reviewers get a red rose tied with a gorgeous silky black ribbon each time they review! Here's yours! chucks :)**

**Wild E. ALF: Why thank you! Glad you're enjoying it!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Wow. You seem to know me better than I know myself. Congratulations. :) And thanks for directing me to those stories! I read both of them: pure genius. I adore humorous phics. And okay, so I got the Uncle Sam thing wrong- I'm not American! I try, I try… Lol, yeah, I should really check my "quotes". Thanks!**

**The Cure: Thanks for the review! It's always great to hear from readers. **

**PhantomFan07: Yay, my story is improving as it progresses! Thank goodness. I always get that terrible feeling that as I continue writing, I kinda deviate away from the main point of the story… but thanks for the reassurance! And I'm sure you can write as well as me. Check your reviews. I just proved it. :)**

**Jamea: Aw, thank you! I completely agree with you: Christine should never have run off with Raoul that night on the roof. shudders at the thought Thank goodness is around for us to correct those hideous errors… :) **

**Till next time guys… and please keep it up, I do take any suggestions/creative criticism into account, so make sure you point out the many blatantly obvious errors I've probably made:) Now, REVIEW!**


	4. Confession

**A/N: Good lord... did anyone else have immense difficulty updating documents on This chapter was finished three days ago. I'm quite upset. But anyway, let me show you one of my favourite quotes: "I don't drink… coffee." Anyone a hard-core Gerard Phan here? Please go now and immediately watch Dracula 2000. It's not as crappy as the title suggests. And those gorgeous, curly locks… ANYWAY, here's the next chapter:

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Christine snapped her eyes around to stare bewildered, and more than slightly embarrassed, at the somehow informed woman. Flustered, her eyes darted quickly to the floor, and she wrung her hands in a dazed agitation while Madame Giry gave a curt, knowing nod.

"We must talk about these visits of yours," she stated firmly, and grasped Christine by the elbow, leading her towards the door. Before turning into the shadowed corridor, she looked back to her utterly bemused daughter and shook her head with pursed lips as Meg silently pleaded for inclusion in their strange discussion.

As the two women left the room, Meg sighed loudly and sat back down on Christine's bed in a huff. She was always left out of these mysterious affairs. And it was her own mother, and best friend conspiring together without her this time!

Situations akin to the current one presented themselves quite regularly to Meg, and each time she was left out of some matter she sensed instinctively to be important, her curiosity grew. This time was one too many for the poor girl, and she finally gave in to her more immoral inclinations. She slipped out of the room silently, and followed the faint light of her mother's candle as she and Christine swept along.

* * *

As soon as the ornate door had clicked shut behind them, panicky words started tumbling out of Christine's mouth faster than she could control them.

"How… how can you know about the Phantom? His name? When I just found out now!" She paused, eyes widening in horrified realisation, and her mouth dropped open. Her tone flattened when she finally began anew. "You knew, didn't you? You knew that this man was my angel from the start. Every night when I would pray to my angel of music, my last connection to my father, when I would spend hours waiting for the solace of his presence, you knew who it was singing back to me? And you didn't tell me?"

Christine could go no further, too shocked by the unexpected sense of betrayal that was starting to settle into her.

Madame Giry sighed tiredly as she massaged her temples, leaning heavily against the cold unlit fireplace that covered a wall of her tiny private room. She had known for years that there would come a time for these endless accusations, and she had assured herself that she would accept responsibility for her devious part in the entire affair when the time inevitably came. Now she was not sure she had the courage. Christine was like her daughter, and it had been so very long…

The web of deception had continued for far too long, the woman knew that! But once the affair had begun, and both parties had experienced the benefit of their little game of deception, Madame Giry had comfortably replaced the bite of her conscience with romantic, idealistic notions of providing a salvation for both a lonely, bitter man and a heartbroken young girl. What a fool she had been.

And now, finally, came the time for her dreadful confession.

She gripped hard onto the front of the armchair before her as a terrible guilt wracked her, as she saw the shining innocence in Christine's eyes flicker and fade, disappearing to be replaced with the cold, bitter maturity of an adult.

* * *

Christine waited numbly for the world to stop spinning around her. She could not accept any of the nonsense her brain was trying to force her to accept. Madame Giry would never put her in knowing danger, not the strict, pragmatic woman who had accepted her maternal role upon her arrival at the Opera House all those years ago.

In the space of a week she had learned three terrible, potentially devastating facts. Firstly her Angel of Music, guide and guardian of seven years, turned out to be the mysterious, dreaded Opera Ghost, whispered about behind palms and wide eyes amongst the ballet girls. Secondly, this suddenly corporeal being somehow loved her, loved her with a fiery passion that bordered on terrifying obsession. Thirdly, Madame Giry had known about the entire affair from the very beginning…

And within a week Christine had learnt that her entire life since entering the Opera House had been a lie.

Nevertheless, shocked and immeasurably hurt as she was, she listened with great intensity, eyes fixed carefully on Madame Giry's stricken, then hastily resolved, face.

With every slow, steady sentence detailing the dreadful truth of Erik's past, Christine dug her nails harder into her palms. Tears began to silently flow from her eyes, the barrier broken, as Madame Giry spoke of Erik's abuse, his first murder, their hurried, desperate escape to the Opera House.

She felt she finally understood her sad angel's circumstances, and the appalling sense of betrayal and fear she had felt for the poor man gave way almost immediately to sympathy. Christine had thought her own past to be a tragedy, orphaned at the age she was by her loving father- but hers was nothing compared to the heartbreak of Erik's life.

"Has he… had contact with anyone… else during his life here?" she whispered, unashamedly allowing tears to blot the front of her white dress.

Madame Giry shook her head solemnly. "I have kept in contact with him through the years he has lived here," she said quietly, a hint of a waver in her voice. "I have been his closest companion- but you could not call us friends."

The woman slipped out from behind the armchair and knelt next to where Christine sat slumped on the floor. "_Ma chérie_, you must understand that I never meant for you to be caught up in the terrible truth of this bizarre situation. I hope that someday you might forgive me, that you might understand the pity I felt for you both, and that I thought that I was helping you both, giving you a companion, a friend." She laughed harshly, quietly, closed her eyelids wearily. "I never meant for him to fall in love with you."

Christine cringed, still discomfited by the fact that Madame Giry could say such things so blatantly. That she even knew of his intentions. She shook her head miserably, gazing up at the moonlight touching the wall before her.

They remained silent for a moment. It was not an uncomfortable silence, nor a companionable one, more a necessary sort of hush, for them both to think things through.

When a shrill, terrified scream erupted on the other side of the closed door, both women leapt up and warily fixed their eyes on the motionless handle. Madame Giry took a step forward, and thrust open the door strongly.

There sat Meg, flat on her behind, facing towards the door with a petrified (but still guilty) look upon her pretty face. It was clear that the silly girl had been listening to their conversation with her ear pressed to the hard wooden door, but what on earth had scared her so?

"What is i-" Christine began, then dropped to her knees, her heart racing madly. She reached forward towards Meg, and gingerly picked up the rose that was lying on the floor before her. She stroked the bow of the silky black ribbon with one trembling finger, then looked up enquiringly at Meg's confounded face.

"It fell onto me from the ceiling," Meg stammered, climbing shakily to her feet, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Madame Giry stepped forward and took her disobedient daughter by the arm roughly. Before sweeping off furiously in the direction of their dormitory, she looked down at Christine's wondering face and spoke calmly.

"He hopes that you will forgive him. I myself shall beg for clemency tonight."

* * *

**A/N: Ta da! I'm actually not too unhappy with this chapter; I thought I would be when I first started, but there you go. I really liked the last few paragraphs. ;)**

**Oh, and I just thought I'd add, in case anyone was confused as to my habit of answering people's reviews at the end of a chapter, I do this because I really appreciate the fact that you've spent some of your time offering me inspiration and encouragement, and want to give some of that back. So, here we go:**

**XPhantomzAngelX: Thanks for the review! Such a simple thing to say: you like the plot. But to me it makes writing this worthwhile. :)**

**Mira-Jade: Wow, you've read all my other stories? Even the freakish star wars "funny" ones? Lol, I hope for your sake you meant the Phantom ones. By the way, if anyone's interested in reading some bizarre humour, read my phic "Angel of Mute". He he. I too am a complete sap, hence the soppy paras in the story. Keep enjoying! Thanks.**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: Thank you so much for the detailed response! I hope you keep reading, both for you and me. :) I'm glad you liked the first chapter; I hope the quality hasn't dropped at all since then!**

**Maya Clearwater: Thank you for the encouragement, it really makes writing this worthwhile. I will indeed try to keep up the quality (if not the length ;)) of the chapters!**

**Tifa: Lol, I couldn't just leave the most Raoul/Christine scene untouched and allowed, could I? That would be… foppish. Very foppish. And anti-EC, which is never good. This is indeed what should have happened… had Christine coughhad a braincough. :) Thanks for the comments on the writing!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: See, see how they're eventually regaining trust! It's all part of the great internal plan! Mwah ha ha! Or, I could just stop it all now, and do some kind of freakish Christine/Raoul reunion. shudder Thanks for the review!**

**Gothic Tiger: Damn it, I want a Spanish poltergeist! All I got is this one lousy French Phant… oh, it's you, Erik! Well, that's okay then. ;) But still, Spanish accents are sexy… have you seen that episode of Fairly Odd Parents with Wandissimo? Coz that is pure SEX man! glances around furtively then RUNS AWAY!**

**Creedy's Only Fan: Your name is a lie (as I've already said ;))- you know, ever since I saw your name a couple of days ago, I keep mentioning Creedy… I think that might possibly be because I was with my good friend, also obsessed with Gerard, but still… Anyway, thanks for the review!**

**PhantomFan07: You know, after seeing how fast you update, I feel kind of bad for all readers of this story… :) Yay to this story's number one phan! I hope this chapter is captivating enough for you!**

**Hope you enjoyed that everyone, now tell me how much! Or how not much :)**


	5. Rose

**A/N: Hey guys, this one's a shortish chapter, but I just wanted to clear the way for a good next chapter. Plus, I liked the ending. :) Look forward to the next instalment, and enjoy this one!

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**

Christine sat quietly on her dressing room floor the next morning, lost in thought. She twirled this new black-ribboned rose absent-mindedly between her hands, gazing deep into the velvety petals, inhaling the sweet, heady aroma as she raised it to her nostrils. Her eyes drifted shut as she slowly leant back against the intricately carved wooden doors of her wardrobe.

She hadn't slept at all after last night's shocking revelations. Though Madame Giry had made sure she went to bed, and watched the inert girl for an hour or so, a motherly face downcast, wrinkled with guilt and strain, until satisfied that Christine had indeed fallen safely asleep, beneath Christine's closed eyelids and peaceful exterior the storm of her thoughts raged on. A war between the two sides of her reasoning filled her mind, with anger, grief, sympathy, fear, affection..?

On the one hand, the man, not angel, the _man_ had killed. Killed for her. An unforgivable crime, Christine would have condemned it, had it been any other man…

But Erik? The poor, lonely, mistreated musician, a being of passion and emotion, denied a normal life, damned to a bitter, tormented hell since born to the world with a cruelly disfigured face? Could anyone blame such a misguided pariah, long separated from the strict control of society's rules and regulations?

But he had _killed_, and in the mind of Christine's religious education, there were no excuses for taking the life of another.

_Oh, why must life be so utterly bewildering?_ Christine thought despondently to herself, wincing slightly as her back pressed heavily into the hard carven wood of the wardrobe. She threw her head back and squeezed her eyes tighter, screwing up her face against the contradictions and confusion of her thoughts, and desperately seeking the raining stars that appeared to her as she gazed blindly at the back of her head, longing for their fuzziness to turn to clarity.

Gradually relaxing her taut, almost painfully tight face, she sighed, remembering the promise she had made to herself earlier that morning when she had finally pulled herself achingly from her dishevelled bed. Dressing herself calmly in a plain, lacklustre blue dress demurely lined with lacy white, pinning her curls firmly into a modest bun, she had told her weary body to ignore the fatigue while she settled the more maddening matter of her indecision. And, just as calmly, she had walked through the gradually lightening corridors to her dressing room, a pink glow falling delicately onto her resolved features through the empty silence.

There had been no one about at the hour, and Christine was thankful for the peace, the solitude, the privacy of her whereabouts sealed. Well, hopefully concealed from all but one…

The purpose of her journey was simple, the obvious way of clearing her conscience and making a final decision: conversing once more with Erik. Christine's good and fair conscience had brought her to the conclusion that deliberating the matter further with only her own and Madame Giry's input would be unjust, to herself, and to the Phantom himself.

She had promised herself that until Erik came for her once more, she would halt any topical thoughts in their tracks.

As she exhaled, as she remembered her vow, she opened her eyes peacefully and looked up and into her reflection in the mirror, which stood opposite where she was now seated. Her eyes flew gently over herself, and she serenely noted the way her hair was falling over her shoulders, the slightly crumpled front of her bodice, the noticeable spot appearing on her chin-

In an instant, all the tranquillity Christine had forced upon herself evaporated like summer dew, except more violently, and she scooted herself across the floorboards almost painfully fast, closer towards the mirror.

With a look of pure panic in her eyes she cast a cruelly meticulous gaze upon the offending spot. She could not meet with her angel if her face suffered such a terrible imperfection!

Suddenly the silly girl realised just whom she was worried about seeing a mere pimple 'marring' her face. She threw herself backwards to lie flat on the floor in shame, holding her hands to her face as she laughed guiltily at herself. Erik would be the last person on earth to care about pimples. Christine decided that this was her punishment for admiring herself so closely, so vainly, in the mirror.

Suddenly Christine realised something even more brutally embarrassing for herself. She bolted upright until she sat straight-backed, staring wildly at her reflection. She couldn't stop the moan of absolute self-pity from escaping her lips as she gripped her fingers to her palms so tensely that the stem of the rose broke in two.

What would have stopped the Phantom from peering through the mirror at any point during the year she had occupied the room? She was moved into the room at the worst time too- a sixteen-year-old girl spends vast amounts of time admiring her reflection, shy and modest though she may be around others. In fact, Christine thought piteously, forcibly holding back from whacking herself in the forehead, if she remembered correctly, both she and Meg had spent simply _hours_ practising their curtsies in front of the mirror.

As Christine grasped her curly head wretchedly, she was certain that she heard laughter echoing through to the dressing room from somewhere behind the walls. Erik didn't appear, however, until a good ten minutes after her ghastly realisation.

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**A/N: Well. Wasn't that an interesting thought Christine just had? Seriously, wouldn't it kinda freak you out if you knew someone could have been staring at you through a mirror? I know that I do some rather embarrassing poses in the bathroom. Add to that the fact that I talk to myself, and you have one funny, embarrassing as hell situation. :) Now to reply:**

**Mominator: Heeey, nice to see you over here at this story. :) I'm glad you're liking it. Lol, I'm just happy people picked up on the stocking thing- I've always loved the odd mystery of their absence after Music of the Night. Maybe Erik stole them to complete his wedding statue… Thanks for reviewing!**

**StarrySpark: Glad you liked it! I'm sorry about the shortness of this chapter, but the next one should be a more adequate length. :)**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: Wow, thanks for the indepth review! I love it! These are the reviews I love the most, because you're actually helping me with the story's direction. I do like the angsty phics… hopefully I can do them justice somewhat with this story. ;) Oh, and with the looong time waiting for the last chapter, I had actually been trying to post the story for about three days; screwed up and wouldn't let me upload stories. So hopefully there'll be less of a gap for future chapters.**

**PS: I love you man! How AWESOME is Gerard? I love his scottish accent- I can't believe he sings so well with an English accent. I haven't actually seen Dear Frankie yet, coz I can't find it! My video stores suck! But I do so love Dracula. The "I don't drink… coffee" quote is the best. (Have you seen the pictures of Gerard in gold underwear for 300? Holy god. Lol.) And also, are you Australian too? Yay!**

**XPhantomzAngelX: You know what I'm doing between writing this and updating it? Reading your story, Time Goes By. It is absolutely fantastic, and I will do this gigantic review when I eventually reach the latest chapter- I'd review every chapter but I feel kinda weird doing that. I'm glad you're liking my story!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Damn, now I've had to completely change the direction of the story to cut out all those future R/C moments. Lol, somehow I don't think so. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Mira-Jade: I thought I recognised your name! Isn't it "Mara-Jade" though? I love star wars… I'm a die-hard Hayden fan. Lol, I loved that part with Meg too. Thanks for the comment, glad you're liking it! And if you have written any star wars fics, let me know and I'll find them. ;)**

**PhantomFan07: Thanks! Glad you enjoyed it! Again, I apologise for the length, but hopefully the next one's worth waiting for. Keep on rocking!**

**Thanks guys! Now go and review for me, coz it keeps me all warm and tingly, and I am bloody freezing right now, thanks to the delightful Melbourne weather. I want summer back! Or at least a nice autumn!**

**Peace out.**


	6. Mirror

**A/N: Wow, a lot of reviews for the pathetically short last chapter! I thank you all most sincerely. Hopefully this chapter is of a slightly more acceptable length. Enjoy it!

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Christine remained seated as her waiting ears suddenly picked up a strange sliding noise, and her eyes shot upwards to the empty black hole where her mirror used to be. Well, almost empty. She had originally missed the motionless black folds of the cape, the covert shine of the black gloves, the dark mask hiding the majority of Erik's pale face… but there was no way that her eyes could miss the light, piercing blue of those entrancing eyes, meeting her own wide gaze from where she sat in a completely unladylike-fashion on the floorboards.

Her white face flushed brightly as she suddenly remembered herself, and she quickly got to her feet, ignoring the proffered hand of the Phantom. She brushed down her skirts busily as she avoided those intense eyes, blushing more heavily as she remembered her previous realisation, and pictured that gaze focussed on her through the mirror. It was a tantalising, exciting, and completely inappropriate thought, and as she eventually clasped her shaky hands at her waist, she looked down at Erik's black shoes with wide eyes, cheeks still stained red.

She felt, rather than heard, as Erik swept across from the passageway, closing further the short distance between them. She slowly looked upwards to find him gazing curiously at the broken stem of the poor rose, still clutched tightly in her little palm.

"You have broken my rose," the Phantom said quietly, reaching over and slowly prying Christine's frozen fingers open, taking the flower and laying it onto his other palm.

"You have stolen my mirror," Christine said unthinkingly. She started when Erik gave a short, hollow laugh.

"For you, I will summon it back, when we are both ready."

The imposing man brushed the tip of his finger around the velvet edge of a rose petal carefully, in a repetitive manner that Christine found most hypnotising. She forgot to answer, to respond to her angel's odd statement, as she followed the black-clad finger on its sweeping circles.

"Tell me," he said finally, halting the motion of his finger mid-brush, "What were you doing with that foolish man on the roof two nights ago?"

Christine could almost feel the coldness seeping from those icy, pale eyes, narrowed visibly behind the mask. She shivered imperceptibly, and clutched her fists a little tighter as she tried to work her sluggish brain, and answer the simple-sounding question.

Her breath shortened as she remembered the precise reason for her escape to the roof, and suddenly her mind was clear. She recalled everything: the screams, the drama, the confusion, Raoul…

Her voice squeaked a little as she answered, but she bravely continued regardless. "I was running away from you."

Christine heard nothing in response to her horrendously candid answer, and without the solid barrier of some forbidding sign from Erik, the words came tumbling forth, quicker and more frantic with each syllable.

"I was trying to run from the hold you keep over my mind, from the power I know you have over me, from the anger and the murder, and the lies…"

Christine stopped mid-sentence, afraid of herself, of where she had been heading, of what she had so rashly accused Erik. It was true, it was all true… But did she mean it now?

Was that _fear_ in the suddenly shadowed eyes of the Phantom, some desperate self-hatred, further self-debilitation with every uncertain blink, intense gaze no longer intense but averted?

She took a faltering step forward, a hand gingerly held before her, as she was flooded with pity for her companion. She stopped short as Erik turned harshly away from her, staring bitterly towards a blank wall. He plucked the petal viciously with his first two fingers, and dropped it apathetically to the floor.

"If that is so…" he began coldly, then cleared his throat. "If that is so, then why did you reject his advances? Why did you wait for me on the rooftop long after the Viscomte had gone? Why did you…" Here the man paused again, and bowed his head for a second, forcibly calming himself, regaining control, then continued. "Why did you sing that song with me?"

He turned his head back towards her, his eyes questioning, boring into her almost desperately, as if attempting to rip the answers right out of her soul.

Christine closed her eyes and tried to think of the elusive answer to that question, not only for the Phantom but also for herself. When she at last opened her eyes, still hopelessly searching for a response, she had to blink and turn her head. The strong morning light was reflecting directly onto the mirror before her, and into her eyes.

Erik had gone.

* * *

As soon as the first ballet exercise of the day had been completed, Christine winced. Her muscles were fine, she had not physically hurt herself; it had been quite a casual rehearsal that morning, the week's performances having been cancelled in order to give Carlotta leave for recovery. No, the girl winced because she knew she had danced appallingly, and she had just seen Madame Giry turn from the piano and beckon to her.

Not only was Christine immensely fatigued, the consequences of her sleepless night finally starting to rudely appear, but she could concentrate on nothing but searching for an answer to the Phantom's question. What was it that she truly wanted? When she was with Raoul on the roof that night, the answer had seemed obvious: she wanted a life of passion, music, love… But could she abandon all the fashions and frivolities of her current life? For joining her angel in his underground lair would mean leaving behind the familiar forever.

Human beings, as a whole, are not fond of change. Even necessary change. And Christine was starting to feel that her increasingly evident feelings for Erik called for a rather necessary change.

How much longer could the girl ignore the enticing shiver racing reflexively down her spine whenever she was confronted with a normal rose, or a mirror? What kind of singer was she to become should she continue to lapse into a state of reverie whenever the opening chords of a song were played?

How could she continue to live without her angel when her life had begun to unknowingly revolve around him, and thoughts of him? When she had still believed him to be the spirit of her father she had confided only in him, in prayer. Prayers that were answered. Everything she had achieved at the Opera House was in some way connected to her angel's answers, and his strange requests. Audition for this, he had told her… sing especially well on this particular day, smile at that person…

And her faith had wavered as she grew older and wiser to the ways of the living world, devout and pious as she tried to be. How many times had she imagined a corporeal embodiment of her angel, not in any disrespectful way, but as a companion, a friend, someone with a true understanding of herself. In many ways, a lover.

And since she had known the truth… had there ever been a moment when her thoughts hadn't been fixed on Erik?

The Phantom of the opera was there inside her mind indeed.

However, at this moment, as Christine nervously completed one final stretch, consciously avoiding glancing into the mirror, the Opera Ghost did not seem to be the matter of most importance in her mind. Would Madame Giry rebuke her in front of the class when she knew full well what was causing her student's mind to wander?

Ducking her head to avoid the curious, gossipy gazes of the other dancers, Christine meekly made her way to the side of the stage where Madame Giry stood, waiting impatiently. As soon as she drew level with the woman, she was irritably ushered into the partial privacy of the nearby wing.

Madame Giry turned away from Christine once they were a few metres behind the curtain, rustling behind abandoned pieces of scenery and some large props before finally appearing satisfied, and glaring back at Christine.

"_Ma chérie_, although I consider you my daughter, I cannot treat you as such during rehearsals! Had you been another dancer I would have been rightfully offended by your clear lack of attention during that rehearsal!"

Christine gazed at her worn slippered feet as she accepted the lecture. She gave a small nod in the proper places and clasped her hands submissively before her, her body language clearly conveying her acquiescence. And seeing all of this with her sharp eyes, Madame Giry sighed and could rebuke no further.

"Oh Christine, you are such a good girl. You stand there and accept my admonishments, and yet you know that I am mostly to blame for your lack of attention during rehearsals. But you say nothing."

The woman sighed again, and led Christine gently to a nearby set of chairs.

"Tell me what is troubling you, my child. Are you worried about the fact that Raoul has not yet contacted you since his dramatic exit?"

Christine shook her head emphatically, yet did not say a word. How could she explain to Madame Giry the confusion that she was feeling whenever she opened her mouth to sing, the sense of loss she felt when she danced, and knew there was nobody watching her?

Madame Giry sat there, considering her next words. She had already caused so much damage to the young girl's life. Could she risk interfering further?

"Christine," she began, slightly hesitantly.

The girl looked up questioningly.

"Did Erik… do something improper, or harmful to you in any way since last night when I told you about his past?"

Christine looked taken aback, as if that was the last question she had been expecting. "No," she said, confused, "What should he have done? Erik did nothing to me last night. He barely spoke to me," she said miserably, looking down at her hands.

Madame Giry considered this strange revelation. "Perhaps I should speak to him," she muttered to herself. "I shall ask him to leave-"

"Do you know how to contact him?" Christine asked eagerly, rising slightly from her seat.

The ballet teacher looked quite taken aback by Christine's very forward question, a most uncommon expression of surprise lifting her perfectly shaped eyebrows almost comically. She quickly composed herself, but looked at Christine in a slightly different way when she answered. "I know how to contact him, yes," she answered carefully.

Christine sat back on the chair, her hands resting almost impatiently on the arm rests. "Would you tell me how?" she asked quietly.

Madame Giry examined her nails, forcibly cool and detached, as she tried to decide on the best course of action to take at this surprising turn of events. "Well, _ma chèrie_, I don't know what to say. When I want to speak to the Phantom, I generally leave a letter for him in Box Five, that he receives at the next performance. But I assume that you would like to see him prior to next week."

Christine was by now aware that she had steered their conversation into a strange and confusing matter for Madame Giry, and merely nodded. Her cheeks slowly began to heat again as she realised what it must sound like to her maternal figure.

Madame Giry smiled slightly as she glanced up from her nails, feeling an uplifting sense of sanguinity. Perhaps those years of deception and betrayal hadn't wasted lives and trust. Speaking slowly and deliberately, she continued:

"I happen to have suspicions about the stability of that mirror in your dressing room, and how long it will take before it will completely falls of the wall. Perhaps you should check around the bottom for any hidden supports, or lack thereof."

As Christine raced off, thanking Madame Giry most profusely, the woman sat back comfortably in her chair and brought her hands together in thankful, glorious prayer.

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**A/N: Yes, yes, I know, where's the fluff? Do not worry. Be alert but not alarmed. The fluff is COMING. dun dun DUN It will appear most shortly. Now, to reply:**

**StarrySpark: Oh, I know! It would be so embarrassing… I pose shamelessly in front of my mirror all the time; in fact, in front of every reflective surface. :) I think Erik would get sick of me pouting. Lol, hopefully I sent this out quickly enough for you! Oh, what am I saying, of course I didn't! I'd have to have sent it out approximately one minute after you'd read it for it to be fast enough, wouldn't I? ;) Thanks for reviewing!**

**Faust: Ah, long time no see. :) Thanks for your review- I'm really glad you like both my comedy and my serious phics. A lot of people stick to one genre, which is probably less confusing :) but I like to have the best of both worlds. Keep reading!**

**Ducky in Spandex: Thanks for the extensive review! I think the chapters should be longer than the last one too- I just wanted to get something out reasonably quickly. Hope this one's a better length. I love to delve into the minds of characters- sometimes I wonder whether I'm using too much description, but dialogue doesn't have quite the same affect in stories, don't you think? Lol, I'm sorry about the lack of fluff in this chappie, but keep reading! Just wait a little…**

**Mira-Jade: Lol, I heard your little request for fluff loud and clear. And yes, I know I've disappointed you in this chapter, I'm sorry. I'm a fool for angst. :) No matter. The time will come. I love the name Mira! I've never heard it before. So pretty. Thanks for the review, keep them coming!**

**ErikMySweet: I'm glad Raoul is gone too. It makes for a much better, less annoying story. Hope you're enjoying it, thanks for reviewing!**

**Masked4enternity: Gerard Butler IS awesome. I hear you, sister. OMG, mask shaped chocolate! Just in time for easter- almost. Mmmm… masky. Want more! Thanks for reviewing. :)**

**Wild Made Lioness: I'm glad you liked the ending of the chapter! That's my comedic side showing through. Sometimes the humour is awful. But it's good you liked it this time. :) Thanks!**

**Jedi X-man Serena Kenobi: Hey, totally awesome name! Seriously, that length and fan covering is amazing! Say, have you noticed how many star wars fans love poto as well? It's kind of freaky. I never noticed that before. Thanks for reviewing!**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: Lol, I've always kind of wondered about how Christine felt about being watched through her mirror. I'm surprised other people haven't written about it. Especially in humour phics. I wasn't sure myself about the way the chapter sounded… I know it was all serious and angsty, and then all stupid and teenagery, a strange combination, but I wanted to show that Christine isn't just a serious thinky person, but a teenage girl as well. I mean, she needs some sort of realism, eh? I'll try hard not to go too OOC. Please remind me if I'm heading down that path (or appear to be). Your question about Erik's persona hasn't yet been revealed, has it? It's an interesting question. ;) Oh, and on a separate note, I KNOW, I was utterly frustrated by the fact that they only released the single disc version here, and even that is hard to find! What state do you live in? I'm in sunny Melbourne. groan**

**Mominator: Lol, I wrote that section of the chapter and was like, am I being stupid, putting this in? Every other writer seems to write their characters full on seriously all the time (unless of course they're writing a humorous phic). But then I decided, being a teenager- hey, why not? Same with the mirror thing. Glad you're enjoying it, and thanks for the review.**

**Mystery Guest: Uh oh, what's wrong with the story's summary? Does it sound bad, or not enticing or something? Summaries are truly the hardest part of the story to write. I'm glad you like the characterisation, and I KNOW, I know, the fluff! Wherefore art thou? Except that makes no sense… Just you wait for it, okay? ;) Thanks very much! Keep reviewing.**

**PhantomFan07: Lol, soon enough for you? Possibly not. Although I am being kept waiting for more chapters of your story… ;) Thanks for the review!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Red Mouse? For some reason I just thought of the _Hunt for Red October_. Isn't that the movie with Sean Connery in it? I like Sean Connery. His accent is funky. ANYhoo- thanks for reviewing, and know that I'm keeping Raoul out of the story just for you. :)**

**Good lord that's a lot of review replies, guys… thank you. My fingers ache. That's good. Review now (again), and I'll update soon, I promise, with… dare I say it? A little… fluff?**


	7. Past

**A/N: Firstly, I give you all a very big apology for the delay between chapters. My life has become rather hectic over the past couple of weeks, and I have really had no time for myself. Note to all readers of _Angel of Mute_: I am extremely sorry for the looong break that story's been taking, but it's coming back shortly. That having been said, I hope you all enjoy this new chapter!

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Christine ran through the doorway of her dressing room, having impatiently fumbled with the doorknob and pushed the heavy wood aside. Cheeks flushed with excitement, hair wildly askew, ringlets bouncing out of their imprisoning bun, she scooted unashamedly to the floor, disregarding the pretty flimsiness of her dance outfit. She stared hard at the floor around the mirror for a moment, perplexed.

The bottom of the mirror seemed to be attached firmly to the wall. There were no imperfections in the wooden frame, nothing to give away the secret of the entrance, not a scratch in the glass. Christine lifted her right hand for a second, gazing woefully at the neat little nails, then plunged her hand down determinedly, scratching along the edge of the mirror, searching for a knob, or a lever, a release of some kind. Finally her nail caught on a tiny raised piece of wood along the bottom left side of the mirror. It was a hinge.

Christine sat back on her heels for a second, amazed. How could she have spent so much time brushing her hair directly opposite the mirror over the months, and never have noticed the three miniscule hinges lining the side of her mirror?

She shook her head dismissively, and grasped the right side of the mirror firmly, feeling the smooth, cold glass begin to warm under her hot palm. With her other hand, she felt her way back to the bottom hinge, and pushed on it slightly as she pulled the other side of the mirror into her room. A small gust of cold air breathed into the dressing room as the glass slowly slid inwards, revealing the dusty, black passageway Christine recognised with apprehension.

How frightening it was to travel down that icy, sinister passageway alone! Hugging her arms around herself, Christine tiptoed her way down further into the gathering darkness, until blackness surrounded her completely, the blank light of her dressing room quickly disappearing, sucked into the world of constant night under the Opera House.

Her shallow, echoed breathing became the loudest sound in the passageway, the normal sounds of day dying away with the light. A faint dripping could be heard from some unknown place nearby. Christine grasped the cobwebbed walls blindly, cursing her stupidity, yearning helplessly for a torch, for light of some kind.

It was with great relief that Christine finally noticed the growing glow begin to grace the stone walls of her passageway, and she almost cried out in happiness. She had reached the great spiralled staircase leading to Erik's lake, it seemed, and someone, (undoubtedly the Phantom himself,) had been so kind as to leave the torches burning in their stiff brackets on the menacing walls.

She pattered quickly down the stairs, her previous excitement rekindled, growing with every step she skipped. She had found Erik, she had found him herself; this time, it was not the Phantom who had taken the first initiative but her, and the thought made her strangely thrilled.

The girl paid no heed to the bitterly cold waters of the lake as she splashed herself into a lonely boat, ignoring the strain of the paddling, keeping her balance like the self-respecting dancer she was. It was only when she began to be able to make out the opposite shore of Erik's home that the trepidation honed in.

What if her Angel was angry? She hadn't asked permission to visit him in his lair; she'd practically stolen his boat, it was lunchtime, she was wet and wearing her dancing clothes…

And their last meeting had been so distancing! Had she truly decided on an answer to that all-important question which had finally been raised?

Christine looked behind her, arms falling limp, the paddle lying still on the water's surface. She could not go back now. For one thing, she'd have to climb back up all of those stairs. Turning her head determinedly back around, the dishevelled girl raised her chin, shook back her wet hair and plunged the paddle back into the murky waters, pushing herself firmly towards the shore.

If she hadn't decided on an answer by the time Erik repeated his question, she would speak from the heart, and hopefully her stubborn mind would learn something too.

Finally, the shore. Christine stepped gracefully out of the boat onto the sandy bay, quite a picture with her fiercely curled head and her torn ballet tights. There was no hope for salvation for her barely held on slippers, squelching as their seams slowly burst beyond repair.

And so she was as she slowly climbed the gentle slope of the shore, nervous but also peculiarly settled by the odd familiarity of the place. As a strange sight suddenly presented itself to her, Christine gasped silently. She clutched her hand to her chest with compassion as she gazed over to the candled corner of the room holding the massive organ.

There had been no music to settle Christine's eerie thoughts as she had paddled nervously across the lake, although Erik indeed sat before the organ as if between songs. His hands were clasped tightly together on his lap, in front of the little figure of a toy monkey Christine vaguely recognised. The monkey, grasping tiny brass cymbals in its little inanimate paws, stared blankly back at its master's face.

On the music stand of the organ sat a small, dirty mirror. Through the muddy, blurred reflection, Christine could just make out a single, devastatingly important fact: the Phantom was not wearing his mask.

Christine jolted with shock as Erik's thin, meek-sounding voice suddenly broke the empty silence of the lair, and she stepped a little closer to her Angel as his muted voice warmed the air.

"Masquerade-

Paper faces on parade.

Masquerade-

Hide your face,

So the world will never find you."

Christine's small white face appeared timidly in the mirror before Erik as he sang, still staring dejectedly at the monkey on his lap. Once he had finished his odd verse, he closed his eyes, bowing his head.

"Christine," he stated unexpectedly, surprising Christine. She hadn't known that he knew she was there.

"Erik," she replied, unsure of what to say. When the Phantom's eyes remained closed at the sound of her voice, she played with her hands nervously, eyes fixed on the back of his head.

The man suddenly seemed to realise that Christine was indeed there, and he hurriedly stuffed the monkey behind a teetering stack of manuscripts on the top of his organ, grasping his white half-mask and placing it expertly on top of his distorted face. Only then did he turn to face her, his eyes one giant question.

"Madame Giry," Christine began, then paused, unsure whether to reveal to the Phantom more of the woman's meddlesome actions. She quickly decided to simply tell the truth. There had been more than enough lies already.

"Madame Giry gave me some direction to find you," she finished feebly, wondering what more she could say.

Erik nodded, but his curiosity was far from sated.

"Why did you come back down here, Christine?" he asked despondently, still sitting slumped on his organ stool.

"Why else but to see you, Erik," Christine answered lightly. Then, with a twinge of guilt, she continued. "I couldn't stand knowing I'd angered you," she said quietly, gazing down at a steadily growing pile of wax on the floor.

Erik laughed hollowly. "Angered me? Oh no, Christine, you could never do that. Saddened me? Possibly. But only for a lack of information."

The tense, awkward knowledge of that 'lack of information' seemed to hang in the air between the two, Christine unsure of what to say, Erik unwilling to speak another word before her. Finally, she breathed out, and prepared herself for an explanation.

"Raoul means nothing. You know that he means nothing to me- we both know full well you were there on the roof with us. I am not his, Erik, I never was."

Christine looked up from the floor, begging Erik silently to understand. Her searching eyes found no target, however; the Phantom's eyes were still firmly stuck on the floor, along with the wax.

His voice was near a whisper when he finally spoke.

"You are not his. You are nobody's but your own."

"And yet I have taken this body that I own, and brought it here, to your home, Erik," Christine countered.

"What are you saying?" Erik asked faintly, lifting his eyes hesitantly to meet Christine's, a flicker of child-like hope lightening his expression slightly.

Christine turned her head to the side, studiously avoiding his unnervingly innocent, heart-breaking gaze. "I don't know," she answered truthfully, seeming to feel the bolt of disappointment as it shattered Erik's hope.

She turned back slowly as she considered her muddled feelings, thoughts breaking forth and falling back like the foamy waves on a windy day.

"You killed someone, Erik. You killed Buquet, and you killed him in a most humiliating, public way. I cannot seem to steer my thoughts of you in any direction but this. The guilt I feel for your murder is clouding my judgement, for better or worse."

Erik's fingers almost unconsciously seemed to drift towards a deep pocket in his cloak, a pocket that almost certainly contained the offending piece of rope. He sighed harshly, and tore his hands back up to grasp his head.

"Do not feel guilt for the sins I have committed. He was not the first, Christine." Erik turned to her now, his eyes boring into her own, pleading desperately for some understanding. "He was not the first, and you will never know of the others. I have lived like this-" Erik stood up, gesturing towards the dank darkness of his lair, "for years, Christine. I have alone lived like filthy vermin in some underground cave for the better part of my life. You are the second person in twenty-five years that I have spoken to directly."

Erik closed his eyes tiredly, dropping wearily back onto the stool. He did not seem to retain any hope for pity. It appeared that he needed to explain himself, if not to be understood, for some degree of forgiveness for himself.

"No one taught me the ways of the outside world, Christine. I have stolen as much as any slimy thief this side of Paris, and I have murdered… more than you would care to believe. There is no excuse for my horrendous actions. I know that. I could never hope for salvation, never, not after my first victim. And I thought that if I was damned, as my fate was decided upon my unhappy birth to my wretched mother, why should I not sin again, and again, and again?"

Erik paused, gripping his hands tightly together, not paying any attention to Christine as her tears fell silently to the floor, shaking hand clasped over her mouth in some unknown emotion.

"Do not feel guilt for my sins, Christine. They are more numerous than the nightmares that have given me insomnia, more dastardly than the natural sin that is my face. And it seems I can barely control my sinning more than I can hide my hideous face."

With that final sentence, the Phantom turned himself away from Christine entirely, hunched over as if nauseated, tears noticeably fighting their way past his forcibly cool exterior.

Behind him, Christine shook with her own tears, silenced by this amazing confession. She truly, painfully understood her naivety now, and her young heart ached for the desperate man before her.

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**A/N: Description overload much:) It seems that I've finally managed to break through to Erik's heart, without actually putting the story in his POV. Actually, I'm quite proud. It's difficult to restrain from going the easy way and just letting the readers know his innermost thoughts, but I feel that a less omnipresent view, as in, the perception we get of him from Christine, felt more right.**

**Anyway; reviews reviews! Good lord I have a lot to answer to. But hey, that's a good thing, isn't it:) Thanks guys. Now here I go:**

**Erik'sangel527: Wow, my story's been recommended? That's really cool:) If you wouldn't mind sending me the link… Thanks for the great encouragement! I'm very glad you found the story too. :)**

**Ducky in Spandex: I'm itching for the fluff too. Or maybe it's just my itchy woollen skirt. :) Sometimes I feel like I'm seriously taking too long to get to the point of the story, with all my endless description- but I'm glad you're enjoying it so much. Thanks!**

**Elf Reader: Yay! A new reviewer! Lol, I hope this sudden update of the next chapter saves your family from that fate worse than death (pfff) but I advise you to keep listening to the music anyway. And sing along, really loudly. Scare your neighbours. Lol, I used to think there was someone behind my mirror too. Oh lord, how awful THAT would be… Anyway, thanks very much for the reviews! Keep reading.**

**ErikMySweet: I love Madame Giry. And I love writing for her too. She's such an awesome character- especially in the movie. (She's also great as Rita Skeeter. ;)) Yes, yes, the fluff is coming. Thanks for the review!**

**Mira-Jade: The last chapter was your favourite? Aw! That makes me feel all fuzzy. I love humour too. I can't remember if you're one of my _Angel of Mute_ readers, but if you're not, head over there. Watch as I gradually unravel my scary humour to the world. :) Thanks for your review, hope you enjoyed this one!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: I like fopless stories. Geez, I really need to read yours… Although it's not fopless. ;) Anyway, thanks for anti-Raoul comment, it makes me feel more sane somehow.**

**StarrySpark: Poor Erik… he had to leave Christine in the previous chapter! The poor dear's deathly afraid of another rejection! I love the drama too, as you can probably imagine. :) And there was yet more angst in this chapter. Lol, I think I may be one of the rabid phangirls in your closet… but I still don't want to be attacked by the rest of them. I'll try updating again, more quickly this time!**

**Mystery Guest: Well, your comment actually helped to shape this last chapter. See, I'd kind of forgotten about the whole murder thing in the last couple of chapters, and you reminded me about that whole idea, so thanks very much. I'm glad you like the girlish Christine too. I'm surprised she doesn't burst into giggles more often around such a hot, hot guy. Hopefully you didn't mind her seeking out Erik this time; I just went with the moment a little. But I think it's turned out well. Please do tell me if I'm getting a little ooc, coz I'd HATE for that to happen. Ugh. But glad you're enjoying it, and thanks again!**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: A short chapter? Well, this one might make up for it slightly. And yes, it was a set-up chapter (as was this one). It's all leading to that glorious fluff, oh yes. I like a mysterious and guarded Erik as well. :) Oh wow, I remember now, you are the other fantastic reviewer who gave me a kick in the right direction with the reminder of the murder that's just happened! Thanks so much! Hopefully I've helped that issue a little in the story… but my excuse is that no one liked Buquet anyway, and, and… he was annoying. **

**By the way, Melbourne? I might know you! I live in Melbourne! How scary is that? And yes, I was being sarcastic when I called our lovely city "sunny". Although strangely enough it's getting warmer these days, even as we approach winter…**

**PhantomFan07: Thanks for the support! Your words always make me feel good about writing this story. It's so much fun, isn't it? Thanks!**

**Jedi X-man Serena Kenobi: Lol, I think Anakin and Padmè are VERY close to Erik and Christine. It's great, isn't it? And they're both completely different genres. Both love affairs end in tragedy, horrible horrible tragedy. And the guys are both hot. But yes… anyway, thanks for reviewing, glad you liked the last chapter!**

**XPhantomzAngelX: Aw, thanks so much for your review! What support you give me… lol, I should stop updating though so you can write more of your story. **

**Mominator: Lol, yes, that was a slightly different interpretation of the mirror scene than I had thought of… but hey, my sense of humour is slightly warped (as you well know. ;)) I'm glad you like my portrayal of Christine; the characters are, after all, the most important part of a story. It's a constant fear of mine when writing that I'm overstepping the bounds of the characters. Thanks for the review!**

**Merci beaucoup, mes amis, now review more, and not in French! Not that that has been a problem… **


	8. Angel

**A/N: Oh, I have a feeling this chapter will be well-received… oh yes I do! Enough! Now read, and enjoy.

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Their tears had ended several minutes ago. Erik had not turned back to face Christine, his hands grasping the half-rough, half-smooth contours of his face. Christine herself had not moved from her position a few metres from the organ, and from the man. Her breaths came harshly, shallowly into the tense atmosphere, but her eyes blinked unusually slowly as she gazed intensely at her teacher, considering her next actions.

She could not leave him now. The horror he had recounted for her did not make her want to leave him; rather, it had seemed to puncture the quickly inflating balloon of compassion held tensely just within her chest.

Christine knew that he had murdered, murdered many, it was now revealed. But fear had long since buried itself behind a gathering feeling of warmth for this dark creature of beauty, hidden in the depths of his self-created exile. But it wasn't a self-imposed punishment, was it? Madame Giry had but recently given her a hasty account of the horrors of Erik's past. His face had brought him here, but his face was nothing of the man before her. It never had been. Angels had no faces outside of their gaudy icons displayed reverently under candlelight in the incense-filled Catholic churches. And even they were merely the produce of imagination; artists had tried to capture the beauty of angels within the inadequate canvas of a human face, a human body.

No one was so beautiful that their visage could compare to the splendour of heaven, of imagination, of music…

The shallowness of humankind had driven Erik to a life of sin and abhorrence, it seemed. It had disfigured him much deeper than the distortion of his facial features. But he had never had one chance to live free from sin, let alone two.

At last Christine broke her freeze and took a determined step towards the Phantom. Without even clearing her throat, so that her voice sounded rough and croaky, far from her usual dulcet tones, she spoke to his motionless back.

"My poor, poor Erik. What kind of life have you known? Condemned to this dungeon of despair, locked within your mind's darkness, deep as Hell. You have never known the love, the touch, of another person."

Christine paused as she heard the muffled sound of Erik's breathing suddenly break into the room, his fingers having slipped from their cover of his mouth. His voice was verged on the breaking point as he raggedly choked out a sentence.

"That fate which condemned me to wallow in blood- this _face_ which earned a mother's fear and loathing; these have also denied me a true life, or any scrap of love."

Fresh tears filled Christine's sore, red eyes as she walked more quickly now, almost frantically, such was her sense of urgency, to the other side of the organ. She fell to her knees and grabbed onto the edges of the organ stool outside the perimeter of Erik's legs. She pushed her face up so that it was mere inches from his hidden face and spoke into his hair with odd recklessness.

"Lift your head and look at me as I tell you, my Angel, that I shall no longer turn from true beauty."

Erik's breathing grew even shallower, and his next words were almost whispered, whispered past Christine and into the cold stone ground.

"You lie, my sweet, innocent Christine. You cannot bear to think of me, this loathsome gargoyle who burns in Hell-"

"But secretly yearns for Heaven!" Christine broke in fiercely, her tears falling against the Phantom's face as she rested her head angrily against his forehead. "You have told me this, Erik! And I will tell _you_ this: my Angel of Music is still part of you, Erik. No matter how you've sinned in the past, you can repent now and still be a good man! You think that I am all you need but you need more. You need hope, Erik. You need forgiveness."

Christine's head fell away from its rest on Erik's as he slowly shook his head, refusing to accept her interjection. She sat back on her damp heels and tossed her head back, gazing desperately to the ceiling for inspiration. All she saw were the ominous tops of the organ pipes, and the deep shadows they cut into the flickering light of the candles.

And she knew what to do, knew how to calm and comfort her broken companion.

Shutting her eyes gently, ignoring the sting of her sore, wet eyelashes, she opened her mouth and began to sing, sing a song that she'd sang a thousand times before meeting her Angel at last. She needed her Angel now more than she had then.

"Father once spoke of an Angel,

I used to dream he'd appear.

Now that I sing I can sense him-

And I know he's here!

Here in this room he calls me softly

Somewhere inside hiding.

Somehow I know he's always with me-

He the unseen genius!"

Christine felt no embarrassment as she sang softly to the silent Erik. She made no effort to mask the yearning in her quiet voice, the unfulfilled, undiscovered desires breaking past her innocence and adding warmth and colour to her song. She stood from her crouched position on the floor as she reached the climax of her song, and kept her eyes closed as she lifted her hands slowly, reverently upwards, reaching radiantly towards Heaven through the many layers and levels of ground separating the two from the open sky above. Her voice reached a new level of clarity and brightness as she stood there, singing at her finest to an audience of one.

"Angel of music, guide and guardian

Grant to me your glory!

Angel of Music hide no longer-

Secret and strange angel!"

Christine's voice cut short after her last radiant line, shocked to a halt as her wrists were grabbed forcibly and dragged down from their position of exultant prayer. Her eyes flew open to find Erik's face centimetres from her own. His left cheek was tracked with dried tears, but his lips were unmoving and his eyes bore directly into hers.

Christine slowly, robotically almost, lifted her hand, pulling free from his strong grip, and stroked Erik's bare cheek with the back of her hand, flinching herself as he backed away instinctively from her touch.

"Too long you've wandered in winter," she whispered to him pleadingly, a dramatic change from her previous exuberance. "Let yourself abandon the darkness around you. Turn away from the despairing gloom of night."

Their eyes were joined with a steel rod connection, neither of them knowing what to see in the other's eyes. When Christine at last blinked herself free, she looked down to the ground in sorrow, feeling defeat. She fluttered her eyes back upwards as she felt strong arms wrap around her waist from behind, and let herself be cradled gently as the Phantom sang softly under his breath, rocking them both harmoniously into a dreamy state.

Both were utterly exhausted.

When the faint melody glided to a halt, Erik having drifted into silent contemplation, Christine blinked open her peaceful eyes leisurely. She had barely noticed the tender travels of his hands as he had caressed her gently while he sang so soothingly to her, but at the awakening of the growing silence around them, she had become very much aware of the improper activity they seemed to be making. A blush reddened her cheeks and she ignored her deeper, less appropriate desires, moving instead to grasp Erik's hands within her own before they travelled any further.

Hot air rushed against Christine's cold ears as Erik breathed warmly behind them, opening his mouth with frustrated confusion, it seemed, or disappointment. Before he could make to pull away, or withdraw his hands from her warm fingers, Christine drew his fingers closer, held them to her chest for comfort. She leant her head wearily against Erik's solid form, closing her eyes and merely breathing, hoping for simple things, like an endless continuation of this peaceful, silent moment…

But it was not to be, and Erik soon opened his mouth to restart the conversation, as men seem to need repeated verbal confirmations of all the mystifying wishes and thoughts of a woman.

"Christine. How can I pretend to understand your intentions with me when I cannot believe the wonderful words you speak?"

Christine sighed miserably at Erik's prevailing insecurity, holding his hands within hers tightly, pressing them more securely against her breast, hoping, yearning for the words she had given him to implant themselves firmly into his mind and spark comprehension! He was being so awfully stubborn, set in his black frame of mind. She could almost hear his prayers, a bizarre swapping of roles.

_Lead me, save me from my solitude…_

The words revolved around Christine's head, bringing a fiercely determined glint back into her eyes. She would make the man understand if she had to kill someone herself.

"Erik, I promise you that I speak nothing but the truth."

Still nothing. The man was not daring to allow himself an ounce of hope, terrified of the life-long rejection he felt implanted into his very soul, forbidding him happiness, satisfaction…

It seemed that no words were going to reveal the truth to the resolutely wretched Erik.

Christine sighed, tilted her head back further so that she could almost see Erik's face behind her, and whispered her own little prayer:

"God give me courage to show you: you are not alone!"

And with that, Christine turned around silently from her position facing away from Erik, reached one shockingly reckless hand up to the closed eyes and drawn face before her, and slipped off his mask, pressing her warm lips to his unsuspecting mouth before he could comprehend her actions! The young girl, so unexperienced in this exciting world of adult pleasures, kissed Erik like one might kiss the proffered hand of a priest in church, her lips firmly together, as prim and sweet as the velvety petals of a young rose. She opened her eyes slowly, shyly, her gentle lashes caressing the rough skin of the stunned Erik, bewildered to the point of comedy.

"I must go," Christine said softly, her voice aglow with happiness and barely suppressed girlish giggling. Her first kiss! She pulled out of Erik's warm embrace and began to back away, their eyes still connected with the intense, hidden passion of shy young lovers first experimenting with the unspoken delights of maturity. "They will wonder where I am."

With that gloriously entertaining sentence, (or so it seemed to the exhilarated Christine,) she whirled herself around, ripping her gaze from Erik's, clapping a hand over her mouth to cover the beginnings of elated laughter.

"Christine…" he began, almost helplessly, his eyes bright and overjoyed, but full of puzzlement, of wonder, of apprehensive hope. He seemed to be frozen to the spot, hands held before him as if still encircling Christine, not apparently noticing the cold air of the cavern as it hit the bare, tender skin of his disfigurement.

Christine looked back at him impertinently, a wide, glowing smile alighting her face, growing fonder as she took in his odd position. "I love you," she said softly, still treading backwards towards the boat, eyes firmly attached to Erik's.

She left him like that, standing there silently, his hands slowly drifting down to his sides, face uncovered and exposed. When he finally came to his senses somewhat, and felt the numbing breeze brush his right cheek, he slapped his hand to his face and was shocked to find his mask missing.

Christine was left with that last shocked expression as she pushed the boat into the rippling water of the lake, clambering lightly into the boat from the icy chill of the water, completely indifferent to the ugly fate of her ballet slippers.

The mask remained clutched within her small, triumphant hand.

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**A/N: Well, how about that? How fluffy was that paragraph? Did it surprise you as much as it surprised me? And don't you feel a little sorry for the pure, innocent, sweet Christine, who could do so much more with the opportunity she's got that most of us would die for:)**

**And now I move into the more exciting stage of the story… Future angst aside, of course. Please let me know how I've handled this introduction to E/C fluff.**

**Replies (and oh how many there are!):**

**Trier1974: I'm glad you like how I've written the story in Christine's POV! It does get rather difficult after a while to stop too much whining and other horrible ooc garbage from spouting out of Erik's mouth, but hopefully I've allowed him to remain as puzzlingly mysterious and sexy as he should rightfully be. :) **

**Mlle.Fox: I know exactly what you mean when talking about the modern day phics! Argh:) And as for evil Raoul… pfff. Is there anything less likely than a Raoul who doesn't have the temperament of a little bunny rabbit? I'm really glad you like my characterisation. Thanks for the review! **

**Skyblue777: No, don't die! Lol, I'll complete it, of course I will! Don't you hate how life courses delays in these matters though:) I know exactly how you feel about the whole poto craze thing… I got the dvd too, and not only can I not stop watching it, but I've fallen way too deeply in love with Gerard and now own half his other movies. How dreadful. :) Glad you like it! Thanks for the review.**

**Mominator: Oh no, you've uncovered more of my plot defects:) It's great though, you keep me on my toes and wondering what details I've murdered horribly while writing. Okay: Christine doesn't trip the trick stair because, as you will see if you read the last chapter a little more carefully, (and liberally ;)) she is skipping stairs as she races down them. The lucky girl must have skipped the bad stair! This is NOT a suss excuse by any means. ;) Thanks so much for the review, keep reading!**

**Psyche&Cupid4ever: Aw, I'm so glad you like my description! And the fluff in this last chapter was partly for you, you persuasive little thing. ;) Hope you enjoyed it! (and I think Raoul is safely out of the picture for this story THANK GOD.)**

**PhantomFan07: I know! Isn't it sad for poor Erik? What a darling. But manly tears from Erik are very good, appreciated manly tears by a lot of us female phans, so hopefully he can squeeze a few more out just for us. Thanks for the review!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Aw, wasn't it just so sad? Hopefully this chapter relieved a little of your depression (and Erik's.) And can I just say, aw! You're such a cute mousey, you are!**

**Jedi X-man Serena Kenobi: I love Erik when he's like anything. ;) Glad you're enjoying it, thanks for the review!**

**Kalaia: Well, what do I say to such a pointed little comment as yours? You're probably staring at these words on the screen right now and thinking to yourself, "Geez, in the time she spent typing this crap up for me, she could have been posting the story like I told her to!" Enough said! Thanks for reading. ;)**

**StarrySpark: Oh no, another reader who picked up on the lack of traps! Alright, alright, let's just say that Erik was very upset and distracted when he moped back on down to his little lair under the opera house, and so forgot to set his little booby traps. And Christine was actually watching her feet instead of fixing her hair and fluffing up her ruffled shirt. There we are, I've covered my blatant stupidity. :) Hope that's good enough for you! Thanks for the review!**

**HeidiHo: Thank you, thank you. Although you obviously don't need to take writing lessons from me, your encouragement is very much appreciated. Glad you're enjoying it, keep reading!**

**Thanks guys! Do tell me what you thought of this most important chapter, and remember, I'm always open to suggestions. **

–**waltzes off to dance among the blood red roses as she enjoys her own self-written fluff slightly too much-**


	9. Revelation

**A/N: What's this, you say, frowning slightly as you survey a strange-looking email alighting your screen, proclaiming that yes, this procrastinating author has released another chapter less than a week after her previous one, and not only that, but it's of reasonable length as well! Are you dreaming? I hope not… that would be odd. But hopefully you all enjoy this, and if you haven't reviewed the story before now, I would really like to hear all/any feedback you may have the niggling to give me. Enjoy!

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Christine was met by the small worried figure of a stressed Madame Giry on the other shore of the lake. Blinking past her surprise at the encounter (and still deeply euphoric from her recent triumph), she climbed most adroitly out of the boat and walked patiently towards the woman, hiding Erik's mask most covertly behind her damp skirt.

"Oh _ma chérie_, I've been so worried!" Madame Giry cried, her usual strict composure flicked carelessly aside as she rushed over to the quiet girl, gathering Christine up in a fretful hug.

A frown came to Christine's face as she instinctively hugged the woman back. She pulled back from the woman's tight grasp and looked Madame Giry in the face, puzzled.

"Madame, whatever is the matter? I haven't been gone for so long, and you must have known where I was headed!"

Madame Giry sighed, and moved back a little, allowing Christine her space. "Oh child, I received word two hours ago of a planned investigation of these lower levels of the theatre. Buquet's murder was a serious affair, Christine. The police are very much in the mind of the managers in such a dreadful business. I was afraid that something would happen to you."

Christine, ever concerned for Erik, gasped loudly. "_Mais non!_ I must go and warn Erik!"

Madame Giry shook her head wearily to herself and grabbed Christine's wrist as the girl attempted to climb straight back into the boat and row herself directly to Erik, to warn him of the impending danger.

"_Ma chérie_, I came here for that purpose myself. I will not allow you to spend another minute down here in the cold and wet. Besides, do you think that no one will miss you upstairs?"

Christine stopped pulling away and bowed her head meekly, remembering her manners and accepting the woman's words.

"I will go and find Meg now, Madame."

The woman nodded her head at Christine's acquiescence, pleased with the girl's obedience. She patted Christine's shoulder before she left, and kindly offered her reassurance.

"Do not worry, child. I will let Erik know of the possible intrusion he may experience within the next few days. Do not fret for him; he has succeeded in hiding himself down here for years and never had to face the consequences of his less than savoury lifestyle."

Madame Giry took a step towards the waiting boat and paused, turning back to face Christine.

"Be wary of the third step on the fourth flight up, Christine. You may have thankfully missed it on the way down, but there is a trap in that step for anyone upon whom the Phantom wishes unpleasantness. I should hope that he had warned you about it himself, but…" she sighed. "I suppose he might have been otherwise distracted."

Christine nodded, and said goodbye to the ballet mistress, watching as the woman pulled herself expertly into the boat and paddled strongly across the waters she herself had just traversed. She felt somewhat deflated; her meeting with the Madame had not exactly been an occasion of frivolity and happiness.

She walked over to the bottom of the endless staircase and looked up above her at all of the waiting steps, and sighed. But the hint of a bounce came back into her step as she began pulling herself up the cold banister with the hand not occupied by the Phantom's mask, and a smile faintly reappeared on her lips.

Just wait until Meg heard about this!

* * *

Meg sat on the edge of her bed facing Christine, her arms crossed, her easily distracted temperament having turned completely serious on this occasion of most secrecy and gravity for her friend. Not even her foot moved absent-mindedly, tapping into the air the rhythm of some recently rehearsed dance- it was pushed primly against the floor, right next to its partner.

It was not often that Meg was confided in for any matter, be it a piece of frivolous gossip from one of the chattier ballet girls, or darker, more secret information from her mother, or Christine. On this auspicious occasion, when Christine had grabbed her arm with a promise of intrigue upon her excited face, Meg was determined to act every inch the confidante she wished she was.

An act which fell apart the moment Christine brought the infamous, horrifying Phantom of the Opera into the conversation.

The chat had started out innocently enough, Christine skirting shyly around her major piece of news to begin with.

"Wherever have you been since dance rehearsal this morning?" Meg had demanded curiously, slightly impatient, with the feeling of being left out of yet another infuriatingly clandestine matter.

Christine had blushed, sitting down heavily on her bed, tucking her stockinged legs tightly beneath herself as she had taken a handful of curly hair and tugged at it nervously. She had meant to tell Meg the exciting news, obviously, but… somehow it was beyond the young soprano how easily gossips spread such personal information. With a couple more short glances up at Meg's serious, questioning eyes, she sighed loudly and let go of her hair, a broad smile wrenching her lips apart and creating still more confusion on Meg's puzzled face.

"I have been far below the stage," she had begun slowly, considering her words carefully, "with…" And she had stopped, shocked into a small tirade of nervous giggles at the look on Meg's face.

"With?" Meg repeated breathlessly, her hands tucked far into the material of her skirts as she waited, greatly intrigued.

Christine had blushed even further at this point, ducking her head, unable to even meet the eyes of her best friend. "With…" she repeated once again, her voice muffled against the material of her dress.

"With a man!" Meg gasped, and clapped her hand over her mouth in stunned surprise. She stared wide-eyed at her friend as she considered this new, completely unexpected information.

Christine nodded her head slightly, the top of her red forehead glowing beneath her curls, the rest of her face still hidden from Meg. She breathed deeply, and lifted her head up, sobering considerably as she realised that the worst of it was yet to be told to Meg. And Christine did not know how her closest friend would react. Although the two girls had been together for years, ever since Christine had been brought to the Opera House an orphan by Madame Giry, they were not soul mates and never could be. Their personalities were too different, almost opposite in ways.

Meg was a sweet girl to be sure, but her coquettishly coy behaviour around the young men in the Opera House demonstrated her bolder, more out-going tendencies, her bubbly blonde exterior reflecting the vivacity within.

Christine had always been quiet, the model of what a proper young woman should be- on the surface, at least. Honest, gentle and kind, the girl had kept all personal matters to herself and her angel for years. She was not the most popular among the ballet rats to be sure, but was liked by all unequivocally, even if many of her fellow dancers were quite frankly bewildered by her utter lack of scandal. Due to their attractive dancers' forms, and their natural sparkle of youth, the ballet rats were notorious for their promiscuity. But Christine had escaped all of this 'normal' indecency, it seemed to the somewhat envious gossips, anxious to find something to whisper about behind their quiet companion's back. She was practically… virtuous!

The Phantom had the unique ability to draw out some of the hidden passion beneath her calm exterior, but Christine's everyday sensitivity separated her from the majority of her peers, including Meg.

And so Christine had been completely unprepared for Meg's reaction about the whole exciting affair.

She had paused, taking a moment to prepare herself as much as possible for whatever uproar Meg might raise at her revelation. But before she opened her mouth to speak, Meg broke in, her curiosity breaking down her forcedly calm demeanour more readily as the tension of the situation grew.

"Whatever happened? Did you kiss him?" she asked excitedly, eyes wide as buttons as she scooted ever closer to completely slipping off the edge of her bed.

At this blunt question, Christine's face discovered a new tone of crimson, and when she nodded, it was more like a short, sharp jerk of her chin, straight up and down.

Meg had clapped her hands to her little blonde head in overt, disbelieving excitement, squealing loudly enough to attract the attention of every other girl occupying the room. She ducked her head with embarrassment as she remembered herself, and gazed up at her bright red friend, slowly settling down as a new sense of respect for Christine began to grow within her.

"Was it passionate?" she asked rapturously, a dreamy look filling her eyes at the thought.

If possible, Christine went redder at this deeply private question, and demanded breathlessly, "What do you mean by that?"

Meg looked at her knowingly. "You know what Brigitte said about kissing to please," she began, but was thankfully stopped by the look of absolute embarrassment on Christine's face. "Which reminds me," she said hurriedly, changing the subject quickly, "who is the lucky man?"

It was with the feeling of greatest trepidation that Christine faced this inevitable question, and in the end her courage failed her to vocalise the answer. Instead, after glancing around the room to check for curious eyes, she quietly drew her hand from behind her, and held out the Phantom's white mask, eyes averted.

And it was at this moment that Meg lost all vestiges of a refined, self-controlled confidante and began to open her mouth to scream when-

"Sit down!" Christine hissed angrily, looking desperately around the horrified Meg and checking that their conversation was continuing to be a private one of utmost secrecy and caution. Meg sat submissively but her frozen expression of disbelief, eyes fixed blankly on the symbolic white mask, did not waver for an instant.

"You stole his mask," she said stupidly, gazing with dumb fear at the mask unblinkingly. Comprehension of the full insinuations of such an object within the hands of Christine soon dawned, however, and it was with a disgusted gasp that Meg's eyes switched to focus wholly on her friend. "You kissed _him_?" she spat incredulously, leaning unconsciously away from her friend as if Christine had suddenly contracted some virulent disease of the utmost repulsiveness.

Christine's own eyes filled with hot, angry tears of betrayal and frustration when Meg finally released a little scream of uncomprehending horror, and she grabbed the blonde girl by the arm roughly, dragging her protesting friend out into the necessary privacy of the cold corridor.

"I can't believe this," Meg stammered, stepping away from Christine as soon as she was released, rubbing her sore arm with her hand. "Do you mean for me to understand that you kissed that… that thing? That murderer?"

Christine covered her face wearily with a hand, wiping away a few runaway tears with her sleeve. "He is not a thing. He is a person. His name is Erik."

Meg eyes narrowed as she ignored Christine's quiet protestations. "You kissed him and you stole his mask. His mask! Now he is sure to murder us all!" Meg moaned, ever the melodramatic victim.

"Be quiet, you silly girl!" Christine said sharply, her voice quiet but filled with a seething intensity. "Did you hear nothing to provoke compassion when you eavesdropped on your mother and I last night?"

"I heard enough to know that this abhorrent creature is obsessively in love with you," Meg said stubbornly. "That is all this is! A madman's efforts to take you to bed!"

"How dare you!" Christine gasped. Her face had long since lost its red blush, and all remaining colour drained out upon hearing that hateful sentence leave her friend's lips. "He is a passionate, caring genius, and any madness which has taken place at his hands was caused by the shallowness of our very own despicable society!"

Meg looked utterly repulsed (and taken aback) by such wildly objectionable statements, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, stiffly averting her eyes from the mask clutched pleadingly in Christine's hand. "He is nothing but a monster with a face from Hell!" she declared loudly.

Christine, overcome by the constantly raging tension of the day, finally raised her voice in anger against the one person she'd felt it proper to confide in. " He is not a monster!" she cried furiously at her deliberately cold friend. She would have continued to heatedly object, but stopped cold as Madame Giry suddenly appeared forebodingly in the corridor behind the icily unaware Meg. Christine quickly snapped the mask behind her skirts as she nodded, acknowledging Madame Giry's presence, alerting Meg. Meg immediately turned around and grabbed her mother's arm with one hand, pointing an accusing finger towards the horrified Christine.

"She kissed the Opera Ghost!" Meg demanded brusquely to a startled Madame Giry, whose eyes snapped inquisitively to Christine's pale face.

Christine felt a slow burn begin to tear at her heart, and she shoved past the two waiting women almost desperately, her heart rate increasing as the tears began to choke her, and cause her to gasp blindly with shallow breaths. She ran crookedly down the corridor, wanting nothing more than to escape the two pairs of questioning, calculating eyes, to be alone, away from all the tension of her wildly emotional day.

It was with enormous relief that Christine staggered blindly into her empty dressing room, tears streaming down her face and leaving crooked tracks streaking her blotchy face. She pulled the heavy door, slamming it shut behind her and shakily jabbing the key into its slot, turning it until it locked with a thankful click.

Let them try and reach her with their shortsighted accusations now.

Christine turned around quietly and leant tiredly against the door, holding her chest with one hand as she tried to ease the painful sobs. She slid down to the floor and pulled her other hand, holding the mask tightly, almost defensively, to join the other upon her breast. She hugged the mask to herself as her tears died down, and when her head fell to her shoulder as she eased uncomfortably into sleep, the intensity of her grip never diminished.

* * *

**A/N: Oh yes, I'm so sorry, I just had to bring the angst back in, didn't I? But what kind of Phantom story would it be without angst? And I do want to keep it realistic, and I imagine that had my scenario occurred, Meg would have behaved not entirely unlike this. I mean, just picture her repetitively screaming, "He's here! The Phantom of the Opera!" and then not reacting badly to Christine's disagreement.**

**Hey, at least it wasn't angst between Christine and Erik. :)**

**Hope you enjoyed it anyway. Now replies:**

**PhantomFan07: It was just the introduction to the fluff, wasn't it? I know you're dying for more. Fopless fluff, that is. And thanks for the rose! Oh yes, and the review. ;)**

**Ducky in Spandex: Why thank you! What encouraging praise you give me! I love making people feel cuddly inside- including myself. No, scratch that- ESPECIALLY myself. :) Thanks for the roses, though I'm now crammed into a tiny corner of the room trying to avoid thorns. And choking to death on ribbons. ;)**

**StarrySpark: …but has she convinced Erik she loves him? Or is he still insecure? Ah, the privileges of being the author… -cue for evil laughter- I hope I'm updating quickly enough for you:)**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: The fluff was pretty chaste, wasn't it? A bit of a change from the scary r-rated stories you can find quite easily around here, no? Don't worry, it won't always remain so innocent, but right now it seems to fit quite well with the characters and the story. I loved the giggles and poor Erik as well. Lol, as for you enjoying the cringe-worthiness of the lyrics being said not sang, I hope they still seemed to fit in the story!**

**It is pretty icy in Melbourne right now. They did say on the radio that we were in for a weekend of winter though (or something like that.) I get the choice of wearing either a short, thin summer dress or itchy itchy stockings with my winter uniform to school this week, and it's a hard decision these days. :)**

**Squish Mich: I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Thanks for commenting on my use of description, every bit of feedback helps. I've been writing for a while- this isn't my first type of fanfic- but hopefully it's still fresh, and at least a little innovative. Keep reading!**

**XPhantomzAngelX: I don't take it as a flame by any means! I can take criticism fairly well… -grinds fist into palm- Nah, thanks for the advice. I don't really think Erik had much of a choice in the last chapter though- it was more like Christine really just going for it, surprising him completely. I don't think he minded, though. Hopefully better fluff is on it's way soon… ;)**

**Phantom Creedy lover: You seem to be channelling ErikMySweet- thanks very much!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Lol, you like the first kiss business? It is rather fluffy, isn't it? (Pssst: If you'd like to read another account of their first kiss, read my other phic "First Kiss for Two". ;)) Thanks for the review!**

**Erik's Secret Admirer: I agree with you: yay! E/C fluff! The joy! I'm glad you enjoyed it. More will soon come.**

**Trier1974: Thanks for the encouraging review. I'm glad you found the 'sneaky' insertion of lyrics from the music interesting. :) (Interesting good or bad I'm not sure, but I'm hoping not so much the former.) Keep reading!**

**Jedi X-man Serena Kenobi: Yay, a 'wonderful chapter':) I hope you've enjoyed this one, with a slight lack of fluff… -ducks- And no, the fop will not be showing up soon. Whew. Thanks!**

**Skyblue777: Thank you very much. I'm kinda scared I'll have disappointed you with this most recent chapter due to its lack of fluff… but you can probably understand that I thought I shouldn't make it too intense too fast. Too much fluff becomes slightly unrealistic if it rushes off too fast. This was a pretty long chapter too, compared to some of the others. ;) Hope you liked it anyway!**

**ErikMySweet: You seem to be channelling Phantom Creedy lover- thanks very much!**

**Mlle.Fox: Why thank you! I'm trying to connect my story to the movie as much as possible without it seeming too obvious (or oddly written). Thanks for the review! Keep enjoying.**

**HeidiHo: Ah yes, a dark and despairing Erik… I find that to be the best kind. ;) Not too dark or despairing though. Where would we be without fluff? Let's hope Christine continues to "lead him, save him from his solitude'! Thanks very much.**

**Mominator: Why is it that I seem to always reply to your reviews last? It must be because you read them so nice and quickly! ;) I guess it's saving the best till last- but thanks for your continuing support of my phics, whenever I see that you've reviewed I know I'm always in store for either abundant praise or annoyingly insightful little suggestions (which I very much appreciate, even if I do feel a little stupid. ;)) But thank you very much for the review! Keep reading and enjoying!**

**Thanks guys- please comment on my phic now that you've finished scrolling through all that. Topic for discussion this chapter: Do you think my view of Meg is too harsh, and should I have given her a little more appeal as a character?**

**Merci!**


	10. Presence

**A/N: Any other Russian Orthodox (or Greek Orthodox) readers out there? If so, Xpucmocb Bockpece! (Christ has risen). **

**Special mention to Psyche&Cupid4ever, who somehow figured out the content of this chapter. Psychics. –shakes head- **

**Enjoy the next chapter (and out so soon once more.) I hope you don't immediately assume by the lack of time between chapters that I have no life, because I'm actually incredibly busy; this is my release. :) Anyway, read and review like the good people you are, or want to be.

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**

_White, swirling mist hides a narrow door from the small girl. She is crying, searching blindly, hopelessly for this door, an escape from the fog. Muted voices echo through the endless cavern, then are suddenly replaced by terrified screams. The girl, clutching her small, hard bundle to her chest, runs faster, her eyes tightly shut, trying to block out the piercing shrieks. She trips and starts to fall, sickeningly, unnaturally slowly. She can't seem to move her arms to break her fall. Her stomach turns as she senses her inescapable defeat drawing closer, but suddenly-_

Christine's eyes flashed open. The room was black, the outlines of a chair, a mirror, visible by their pale shadows only. The curtains had not been drawn, and the pallid light of the waning moon filtered through a small window timidly.

The only sound in the room was the shallow gasping of Christine, and she sat up so suddenly from her slumped position on the cold door that she swayed slightly, faint from the blood rush, and from the remnant fear her strange dream left her with. Gingerly placing one cool hand on her hot, damp temples, Christine sighed slightly, and forcibly slowed her breathing. The dizziness slowly effervesced away into the dark stillness of the room, and she blinked her eyes a few times to clear their sting.

Sitting there tiredly, Christine felt the sense of grubbiness that comes with sleeping in an odd position in your day clothes, and attempted to run her fingers through her curls, an effort she abandoned as her futile tugging caused nothing but dull pain across her scalp. She wished she had the pitcher of water that lived on the table next to her bed, but refreshing herself had been the last thing on her mind as she'd raced towards this room.

_Why must life be so complicated? Can one not simply be happy, without the constant niggling vague sense of failure? Why can't Meg be happy for me?_

Christine bowed her head, overcome by the sudden woefulness she felt. She raised her knees to her chest and buried her head in her warm skirts, rubbing her sore face against the soft folds and generally trying to ignore the cold reality of her situation in that room. As her forehead rubbed against an object of strange smoothness she stopped and raised her head. It was the mask- his mask. A warmth slowly began to creep back inside her as she tenderly traced the gentle contours, and she almost smiled, such was her strong sense of happiness connected to this bizarre keepsake she had acquired, a reminder of the exciting potential she had to create her own joys, her own pleasures…

And with that thought, for the first time since waking, Christine suddenly had the strangest feeling. It was a familiar feeling for the girl, yes, but no less disturbing for it.

He was there, there in that very room. The excited shiver running through her veins, the prickling at the back of her neck, the very stillness of the air reflected his presence.

He wasn't even safely behind the mirror, either; Christine was sure of it. She tried to hold her breath in order to hear his, sitting up ever so casually, narrowed eyes searching the shadows.

Erik must have known that she knew of his presence. Those eyes were always so intensely trained on her, she felt sure that he could tell what she was thinking. And she had been so completely unaware, so free with expressing her emotions in that room…

It was with a very false pretence of merely changing her position that Christine awkwardly folded her legs modestly, and slid them around and beneath her, knees pressed almost painfully tightly together. She hurriedly pulled her skirt from its untidy bunches, and pressed it flat over herself, against the floor. With a small gasp her hands flew to her dishevelled bodice, which she jerked upwards violently.

"I have been here for quite some time, you know."

Christine's eyes flew over to her dressing table, and her face was fixed into a haughty expression of outrage as, straining, she vaguely made out the barely visible outline of that familiar ruffled shirt, those long, shining black fingers.

As a lamp on her dressing table suddenly flickered to life, and Christine saw Erik blow out the obstinate flame of a match, she couldn't maintain her harsh, unforgiving exterior, her face settling instead into an expression of embarrassed reproach.

The reproach fell away completely when Erik spoke again, his voice strangely detached and sad. His face was turned away from where Christine sat awkwardly on the floor. His hands were behind his back, interlacing the fingers restlessly with something oddly akin to apprehension.

"Why were you crying before, when you came in?"

Such a simple sentence. Such a simple, non-threatening sentence, hiding so much terrifying significance behind its casual exterior. How to answer such a question?

Christine cleared her throat uneasily, wondering how to respond. Could he think it was because of him somehow, because she saw him without his mask so recently, because she… kissed him? She shook her head slowly, raising her tousled head and staring at his back with pleading eyes, willing for him to turn around and read her like she knew he could.

"Erik…" she said hesitantly, trying to attract his averted gaze, bring his eyes back to hers.

"Yes?"

Christine's heart almost broke at the sound of this single word, so loaded with a resigned hopelessness. She could feel him waiting for her to reject him, to rebuke him and send him away from her forever. Her eyes were still woefully fixed on his back; she could easily see his tensed muscles through his thin shirt, tensing as if against an imminent physical blow.

How her heart ached for him! She could have easily, willingly run to him right then and there, and kissed him again, as passionately as Meg had imagined, if she had thought that he wouldn't bolt away.

"I am sure that you can appreciate the dreadfulness of betrayal like no other," Christine said slowly, carefully, watching Erik closely for any indication of some form of understanding. His severe posture and agitated fingers remained the same as before, and she sighed, knowing that his damaged, hardly existence sense of self-worth needed more reassurance than that one vague sentence.

"I had a- an argument with Meg this afternoon. I became upset and came here for the privacy," Christine said, the beseeching tone in her voice momentarily changing to wryness.

Erik remained motionless, though it appeared that his fingers lapsed into a quieter, waiting tension. Christine closed her eyes, knowing that she was going to have to state the blatant truth.

"Erik, I did not cry because of you or because of my… impertinence before."

There. She'd said it. A blush once more settled into her slowly warming cheeks, and she couldn't look at Erik, his back any more than his face, averting her eyes to the floorboards. While waiting embarrassedly for a response, for Erik to acknowledge her improper actions of the previous day, she stood up tentatively, muscles sore from her odd sleeping position, and rearranged her crumpled dress, smoothening and straightening noisily. So preoccupied was she in this deliberate distraction that she failed to notice Erik's new location. She gasped when she finally looked up, and straight into his pale, direct gaze.

Her mouth hung slightly open, palms sweaty with anticipation, and her wide eyes only widened further as the heady silence hung between them, she unsure of what to see, he too sure of what he was doing. She was losing herself in the usual glorious seizure that came from staring too long into the Phantom's bold intensity, and her eyes began to flutter shut, her self-control having long-since departed, when the silent man before her suddenly extended one gloved hand expectantly.

Christine was suddenly aware of her harsh, loud breathing as her eyes refocussed, averted to this proffered glove. Whatever did he want? Her hand?

As she went to place her tremulous fingers in his waiting grip, she realised that something was already occupying her hand, and she glanced down at her heavy palm dumbly.

Of course; the mask.

Quickly, her mind having been focussed on anything but his face as she had fallen into his eyes, Christine flicked her eyes back to Erik, searching for the presence of a mask. And a mask she found. A black mask, less pleasant than the blank white object in her grip. Its carven contours seemed to be fixed in a slightly more readable, more cynical expression.

She didn't like it at all.

Christine pulled her perplexed eyes from the black mask, sure that Erik had noticed her strange appraisal of his visage, and continued her hand's path to Erik's more readily, with hardly a quiver at all.

Erik took the mask quietly and turned away for a moment as he replaced the callous black with the cold white. Christine frowned slightly, her face settling unconsciously into a mild pout.

"I prefer the white mask," Erik said smoothly the moment the mask was firmly fixed to his face. "It contrasts more aesthetically with my black attire, does it not?"

His voice was once more smooth, indecipherable. With this new, familiar disguise slipped on, he obviously felt he could mask himself, his emotions, with an ease that disquieted Christine, and made her long for the man bared, his mask gone as it had been before…

When she didn't answer his would-be casual remarks, Erik spun on his heel with agitation and reached his hands up to his head in consternation, staring blindly out of the window into the growing swirl of moonlit snow. Christine, having watched his restless actions from behind long lashes, slipped beside him, eyes turned to the twinkles of stars sequentially hidden by the many large, selfish snowflakes.

She closed her eyes from the cold white of outside, but also within that room, and gently placed her heavy head on his inert shoulder, which jerked slightly as the pressure began.

Christine could feel his wondering eyes upon her peaceful face, and relaxed under their caressing, allowing her lids to remain gently closed, moistening her rough, dry lips without thought.

Although the two were facing the window, neither was watching the steady build of white upon the dark ground, both preoccupied with more pressing matters. Christine was greatly tired, and now warm with comfort, and she dozed peacefully upon Erik's stiff, tensed shoulder. Sleep was apparently the last thing on Erik's mind as she drowsily felt, through her closed eyelids, the mystifying intensity of his gaze.

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**A/N: Where is the fluff? Or, at least, the actual feel-good fluff? There. I've said it. You no longer need to because I can already feel your pain. What you can tell me is what (else) I can do to improve the story, or to make it more interesting to you. Go ahead, tell me anything. Are my sentences too long and confusing? Are Erik's shoulders too masculine? Where on earth has Raoul disappeared to, and does anyone actually care?**

**While you're thinking about that, I'll reply to the many wonderful reviews:**

**Ducky in Spandex: Why thank you. It's always good if angst is effective, and not merely annoying. Seriously, that's the only thing more irritating than over-abundant fluff with a sickly sweet simpering Erik turning into a fop himself. I'm glad you liked Meg's reaction, too! I wasn't sure about it, but good. Thanks!**

**Erik's Secret Admirer: I agree! Meg wasn't just going to take it like that, she's not that simple. And they are teenage girls… she was probably lusting after Raoul herself. –shudder-**

**Mominator: Were you really expecting Meg to simply accept Christine's decision? When writing the last chapter I knew precisely how the little twit was going to react, so I never even considered that possibility. That's really interesting. And I did like the child-like tattling myself. She and Christine were brought up like sisters, really, and I felt that since they were both slightly stuck in teenager mode, she may as well go the full hog and whinge. :) Thanks!**

**Phantomfan1911: Oh thank you! I hope this was updated soon enough. ;) Keep enjoying.**

**Chibi Binasu-chan: Yay, new reviewer! And lengthy review. I'm impressed. Thank you very much for your encouraging review- I enjoy hearing that my fluff is perfect (though of course it's not true- it's barely beginning. ;)) Raoul is elsewhere. I mean to keep him there, too. I don't think he's necessary for the story really. Angst will have to come from elsewhere. :) However, if you feel differently, feel free to tell me! Oh, and I will very soon read your story, I just felt this overwhelming urge yesterday to write rather than read, so became delayed. But I will read it. Thanks for the review!**

**Saloma-Kiwi: Yay! Another new reviewer! And you love it? I feel honoured:) Meg is a little harsh, isn't she? I'd use another word for her, but I'm not sure if I'm allowed. ;) Yeah, I hope she loosens up a little too. Thanks!**

**PhantomFan07: I know! A best friend is there for support and so on! Though I guess it would be like you going and pashing some murderous-yet-sexy 35 year old man… What would your friends react like? I know a couple of mine would be jealous. ;) Hope you enjoyed the quick-updatedness of this chapter too!**

**StarrySpark: I know, I know, awaiting the fluff! Isn't everyone? (Including me. ;)) The angst will soon be replaced by more fluff, but until then… Thanks very much for the support, and hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: You know, I completely agree. And it's strange. I never minded Meg in the movie (in the book she doesn't count because she acts like a completely different person- in fact, that's probably what I'm internally thinking of when writing her in this story.) But it's true! Meg always does seem to turn out to be quite a little wench in many stories! Poor baby Erik will just have to wait for that glorious fluff, won't he, like all of us. ;)**

**Trier1974: Why, merci beaucoup. And you even picked up on the solitary grammatical error. You deserve a biscuit for that. (A tough, savoury biscuit, because I was frustrated while baking them, frustrated at my lapse of skill. ;)) I know exactly what you mean about the "clever" lyric insertion, almost involuntarily in phics. It's so tempting! And all you can think of while writing them is how good they sounded when being sung:) Thanks for the review!**

**Mika: Yay, another new reviewer! You know, you're exactly right. Meg did treat her like people treat Erik! What a great pickup. I didn't even think of that myself while writing. Though perhaps I shouldn't admit that. ;) I agree, poor Christine, and thanks for the review!**

**Psyche&Cupid4ever: You. Read. My. Mind. Wow. I feel like you've spoiled the surprise for yourself. :) Well, well done on that. I feel sheepish. Although he wasn't really comforting her… Lol, I am constantly writing stuff, aren't I? It's so relaxing though… A little too relaxing. I'll probably fail all my exams (except English, and possibly French. ;)) I agree, Raoul should be shipped off from all phanphics. Thanks very much!**

**HeidiHo: I like making Christine defend Erik. It's like he's receiving a little bit of victory for suffering alone for all those years. And yes, she will fall more in love. It's just better that way. :) Thanks for the review!**

**Jedi X-man Serena Kenobi: Thank you! Meg annoys me too… can't she just take it like a friend, rather than a shallow teenage girl? Speaking as a shallow teenage girl myself, the only reaction I would have to Christine's secret is immense, burning jealousy. :) Merci pour your review!**

**Skyblue777: Thank you so much for the reassurance that Christine's still in character, seriously, I always get worried about just how ooc I'm making her. :) I hate stories where she's either a weak little simpering fool, a shallow teenage biatch or a completely foxy, devious sexpot. :) Lol, that sounds strange… But thanks for the review, keep enjoying!**

**Mlle.Fox: You know, I think you've pinpointed my precise unconscious image when I write Meg. She is exactly like Meg in the novel! Well, at least I know where that's coming from. ;) Thanks very much for the review!**


	11. Kiss

**A/N: Oookay, so, maybe I got –slightly- carried away with my description of the weather in the previous chapter. So maybe snow usually comes out of clouds. Big deal. Haven't any of you been to Paris? They have magical snow there. Fairies drop it from the sky with their magical snow wands. Or, if you'd prefer another explanation, Christine and Erik were both slightly tipsy and only imagined the twinkling of the stars. Or it was all one big metaphor for 'the author needs to take slightly more care'. :)**

**Whatever it was, it was deliberate. **

**Anyway, what really matters here is a search for fluff. And thus, with that last concluding thought, let us begin the chapter…

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No matter how tired Christine may have been, it would appear that sleeping while upright with an awkwardly positioned neck is impossible, when after at least twenty minutes of silence had passed and she remained awake.

Erik's shoulder had barely moved an inch from its rigid position in that period of time. Christine wondered sleepily, as she eventually leaned more and more heavily on her motionless support, whether he had even blinked, whether his eyes had stirred from their intense gaze directed upon her relaxed face, her closed eyes.

It was only when Christine began to lean too heavily on Erik's shoulder, as her muscles became looser with drowsiness that the man made a movement, turning and taking her in his arms as her legs almost gave way to fatigue. Christine's eyes opened in blank surprise as she was gracefully twirled into a safer, more comfortable position, leaning back now into Erik's chest, his gloved hands clasped around her front.

The moonlight was splashed delicately across the side of her long, pale neck as Christine stiffly turned her head back to look at Erik, her curls mussing against the coarse fabric of his cloak. She looked back at him, and saw that his eyes were now closed, his face (or what she could see of it) relaxed and tension-free, only the safely enclosing arms around her revealing his alertness. She closed her eyes for a moment like that, Erik's warm breath drifting across her face faintly, as warm and comforting as a mother's embrace.

When she opened her eyes his were already glowing with that mysterious light of theirs, and for a moment their eyes locked together in a frighteningly exhilarating piece of audacity on both of their behalves.

After his gaze had drilled into her soul, extracting all her worldly fears and desires in the space of no more than three seconds, Christine tore her eyes away, breathing heavily once more.

She was now wide awake.

She looked in front of her distractedly, and onto the filmy layer of fog beginning to filter the dim light from outside, a woven mist of white slowly forming on the bottom of the glass. Her heart was beating that familiar tattoo, her palms were shaky, her senses were becoming overwhelmed by the weight of Erik's arms around her waist, resting just below her bust. If the man could feel her racing heart he showed no sign of it, but the strength of his embrace made it appear as if he would never let her go.

Barely thinking anymore, intoxicated by the touch and the smell and the deafening quality of the silence broken only by short, sharp breathing, Christine's eyes fluttered erratically and she leaned heavily into Erik's chest once more, head loosely hanging back, her mouth falling open slightly, feeling, revelling in the knowledge of those ever-watching eyes.

She stumbled slightly as Erik finally acted on her strange behaviour, releasing his arms and jerking inelegantly backwards, falling back a couple of heavy steps. The harsh sound of his breathing joined hers, and she turned herself around almost robotically, her eyes searching for his, a shiver running through her as she missed his warmth.

She slowly wrapped her arms around her narrow frame, glancing downwards the moment her eyes found his, shy and blushing at the darker, passionate intensity burning a corporeal trail from his blue eyes to hers, so excruciatingly _real_ that Christine could almost see the blaze through her lowered lashes, like attempting to block out the summer sun through the paper-thin cover of your eyelids. The silence grew yet more critical, and Christine nervously swallowed once, then again, rocking slightly on her toes as she attempted to come up with a suitable point of discussion.

But what could they discuss in this terribly indecorous, unusual circumstance? The strange weather seemed hardly an appropriate area of conversation.

It was Erik who began to talk first, in a low, soft voice that did nothing for the shivers running through Christine, who rubbed her hands vigorously up and down her arms with nary a thought.

"I must know, Christine," he began slowly, almost carefully, the tone firmly unwavering in its quiet confidence. "I must know how you feel."

Christine turned her head to the side, averting her eyes further, if possible, from his analysing appraisal. She twisted her fingers together in consternation, and tried to focus on anything apart from their uneven breathing. Her vastly improper actions from the day before were far from the last thing on her mind.

"Feel?" she responded weakly.

Erik stepped closer, each gentle footfall another resounding crashing of her heart, beating more frantically with every millimetre closing the space between them. A black glove swept upwards from the man, standing just before her, Christine noted from the corner of her eye, and grasped her chin not ungently, pulling it, and her eyes, unwillingly towards him. She slowly peered up from below her long, dark lashes, struck once more into bizarre timidity with the unfamiliarity of the situation.

His eyes were there, waiting patiently for her own, and Christine felt immediately that all other questions were unnecessary; for surely Erik could read her like a book, much in the same way that she could not outguess him, or even understand herself. But it seemed her open vulnerability was mostly the wild makings of her own flustered brain, for Erik's confidence in stride and action were purely a façade, an act he put on for her, to mask his insecurities to the greatest extent possible. For, compared with her own, his qualms and fears were insurmountable, built up over the endless years he had spent alone, abandoned, feared.

Christine knew this. She knew it from the very presence of the cold white mask covering half of his weary, lined face. And she stood a little straighter under the direct eyes of her angel, held her own chin up, allowing him to retract his fingers and merely gaze upon her, perhaps a little perplexed at her sudden, inward change.

"Feel?" she repeated with more confidence, a little breathless, perhaps, but sure enough of her question to be able to hold her voice steadily, with some of the inward diaphragm power that came to the young soprano as easily as laughter in the right situation.

Erik cleared his throat, and paused, obviously uncomfortable with what he had started. However, his intention was strong enough to surpass his new, sudden reservations, and he spoke with enough strength to appear sure of himself to an outsider- but, alas, not Christine.

"I fear you- you spoke without thinking yesterday in my rooms. I fear you do not truly believe your own words, and I need to know…" he cleared his throat roughly. "I need to know what you truthfully feel."

"About you?" Christine said softly, her voice gently prying. Oh, the painful, endless insecurity of Erik! "Did you not hear me yesterday when I told you that I have decided, Erik? For I have finally decided. Did you not hear me when I said that I- that I _love_ you?"

Erik's gaze fell to the floor immediately upon hearing those words, and Christine could have sworn she saw the gleam of an unshed tear nestled in the corner of his lowered eyes. Free from the blazing intensity, Christine was much more courageous, and she stepped even closer to the bowed man, so that when she next spoke, her warm breath mingling with his, there was barely an inch between her mouth and his ear.

"Did you not feel what I felt when I kissed you?"

She felt, her eyes closed, the sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth, almost hearing Erik's fingers dig further into his sweaty palms, knowing from infinite familiarity that her lashes were not the only ones pressed forcefully together.

With a daring that would have shocked any of the ballet girls who thought they knew their quiet, meek companion, Christine opened her eyes and led her steady fingers to Erik's taut, clenched face, trailing them whisperingly over his rough skin, touching his left cheek, his eyelids, his lips…

Erik's eyes bolted open, and the two of them stared, equally staggered by Christine's shocking impropriety, into each other's eyes. Christine's hand fell gracelessly to her side, and her mouth slipped open, as an odd mingling of shock and yearning shot through her.

Neither of them knew what to expect now, after this almost indecent boldness, but it was with one fluid combined forward movement that their lips finally collided, and Christine's eyes closed blissfully as her passion, and the tension of the situation, broke her barrier of naïve inexperience, and she kissed, and was kissed, as harshly and gently, as intensely and passionately as their desirous gazes.

She moved instinctively closer to Erik, pressing her lips with an almost painful strength to his, leaning into him as his uncertain hands pressed into her back, pulling slightly on the tangle of her curls.

It was with a slight gasp that she finally pulled away, red in the face, clutching her hand to her chest and breathing as heavily as if she had been dancing for hours. Her eyes found Erik's almost immediately. The man looked almost as shocked as she, his mask slightly dislodged, his eyes wild. Christine raised her fingers to her raw, tender lips in mild wonder as she watched Erik slide befuddled into her chair, his hands slipping unconsciously to the his knees.

She silently walked to the foot of his chair, sitting down at the feet of her angel, and placed her head gently on his knee, feeling a tender hand settle hesitantly atop her curls.

It was with a glorious peace that Christine finally eased into sleep.

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**A/N: Yay! I hope my heart isn't the only one beating a little faster after reading that… yes, yes, the actual fluff seems to have laid down its roots. Finally. Now all I have to do is be very jealous of Christine. Who joins me there:)**

**I hope you guys don't mind the incredibly slow pace this story is taking. It feels like I'm recounting every possible moment of Christine's life; I almost expect to find myself typing, 'Christine deftly retracted her lips to balance gracefully atop her shiny pink gums, and examined the corners of her pearly teeth for little pieces of parsley.' But you'll have to wait for that, that plot line's a couple of chapters from now. ;)**

**Thanks so much to all my reviewers… I fear I'm beginning to get slightly too many to reply to them all in detail (though I really want to) so I'll just respond very briefly to your comments/questions.**

**Psyche&Cupid4ever: That's a really sweet idea… but I kinda replaced the word 'bed' with 'chair', and the words 'asleep next to her' with 'you'll find out next time'. :)**

**Chibi Binasu-chan: Lol, it's true, Erik could never be too masculine… and is it weird if the author gets slightly breathless while writing her own characters:) Hope you enjoyed the 'action' in this chapter. ;)**

**Mystery Guest: WOAH! Review! Holy cow! You are the KING. Lol, I think I just destroyed all I had been preaching about, saying that fluff should be taken really slowly in the story, coz that seemed to rush straight on. :) Ah well. I doubt many people will mind. The reason Christine confided in Meg was because although they're not bosom buddies, she's the closest friend she has, you know? And you know that feeling when you just have to tell someone…**

**Angelbynight: Yay, newbie, thanks very much for the review. I don't know how many chapters there will be; I'll probably stop when I've run out of E/C love, but that doesn't seem likely right now… :)**

**MyDarkAngelErik: OMG! Erik reviewed me! I'm so honoured! Oh, and you reviewed me as well, which is almost as good. ;) Thanks very much, keep enjoying!**

**Skyblue777: I am so sorry about the length of my replies, I get so carried away… Lol, just think of it as an annoying strategy to keep you eager for more. :) I'm not sure what will happen with Raoul, and whether he will make a reappearance, but keep in mind that the purpose of this phic is not to make a big deal of the Raoul/Erik/Christine triangle, because they've already decided, if you know what I mean. Thanks very much, your advice is greatly appreciated!**

**Saloma-Kiwi: Lol, I liked that sentence too. I want an Erik for myself, or a doll where you pull a string and… yeah. :) Thanks!**

**Mika: I love some good E/C tension. It's so… yeah. I think I've run out of vocab. Poor Erik and his everlasting angst… hopefully we can soon replace it all with some good ole E/C lovin'.**

**StarrySpark: Phan phic is like a job, but I get payed in reviews. Which, I'll admit, is better than peanuts. But I like to know how people are liking my story. And I haven't got flamed yet, so… it's all good! Thanks, and enjoy!**

**Ducky in Spandex: Is dozing off on Erik's knee better than his shoulder:) I'd think so. Hope you're enjoying the fluff. ;)**

**Mominator: You! You… exposer of my awful awful weather stuff-up. Lol, I don't know these things, I live in Melbourne where it doesn't snow, ever:) At least I phrased it well. ;) Oh, I know how the mask thing still has to be worked through! But, you know, you can't just forego a lifetime of horrible pain and prejudice in the space of a couple of days. Or even a kiss from Christine. So glad you're enjoying it! Watch out for more of those magic snowflakes!**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: Lol, I forgive you for not reviewing quicker. Ooooh, nice plot idea… but I feel that would be perhaps a little too… out of character for the story as it's being written now. And who really wants the fop back anyway:) I can't seem to write him without resorting to the horror I put him through in my other story, Angel of Mute. Ah, Raoul… you and your baywatch shorts. :) Nah, glad you're enjoying, thanks for the meaty review!**

**Katie: Yay, another new one! Glad you're enjoying the story so much! Keep reading and watch your jealousy levels rise. ;)**

**Trier1974: I think I'd take Erik over Raoul if Raoul came free with complementary pink fuzzy earmuffs and a lifetime subscription to the Empire magazine. ;) Glad you're enjoying!**

**Mlle.Fox: If Erik was on fire last chapter… phwoar. And just to let you know, my story doesn't have filler chapters- the whole thing is a filler story! This is what should have happened. Keep enjoying!**

**PhantomFan07: Yay, thanks! Hope I;ve rekindled the flames of glorious fluff:) Thanks.**

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Madame Giry looked at Christine in that shocked way because the poor woman had no idea that Christine felt that way about Erik. Knowing the man for the majority of his life, keeping up to date with all the awful things done to and by him, she wouldn't have ever expected the fluff we all crave for. At least, that's what I think.**

**Erik's Secret Admirer: Hope it wasn't too long a wait for you! Keep reading, hope you enjoyed!**

**Woah, lots of reviews. Which is good. Thanks very much, and please give me an idea of how I can improve the fluff (coz I've never written any before, really!) **

**Ciao!**


	12. Circle

**A/N: The morning after! Lol, that sounds strangely odd… anyway, read it! Watch out for a gorgeously protective Erik! Yeah, baby!**

**PS: This chapter may seem to look a lot shorter than previous ones, but I've cut out a lot of space in my author notes.**

**Now read!

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That bewildering, emotional, amazing night, seemingly lasting for days rather than hours, finally ended as the pale light of dawn slid its way past the cold blackness of night, beckoning all those sounds that accompany early mornings: the birds, the dim rumble of carriages rolling by, and an odd murmuring coming from somewhere very close to the drowsy Christine. She turned slightly, digging her forehead sleepily into her pillow, her legs lazily kicking the confines of the blankets away, and hastily gathering them back again with outstretched toes, feeling the cold sweep around her warm flesh immediately.

It was with a thoughtful frown that Christine slowly blinked her eyes open, dragging one heavy hand up to drag a few tangles from her vision. She sat up very suddenly as she finally remembered the occurrences of the night before, so suddenly that she sank back down, dizzy from the blood rush. She gazed around her splayed position on her dressing room floor with considerable confusion.

There was no chair, no Phantom, but there was a lovely soft pillow, thick blankets too fine for a dancer, or even a singer of her newly acclaimed prestige at the opera house. And, most astonishingly (and wonderfully), surrounding Christine in a complete, unbroken circle, lying end to crimson end, were at least fifty roses, each tied meticulously with a silk black ribbon in a symmetrical bow. Her mouth dropped open in amazement, and as she tentatively reached out a finger to stroke a velvety petal, a light blush came to her wondering face.

What care! What luxury to bestow upon such an average girl as herself! Christine felt recently like there was some mystical centre of gravity hidden inside her, attracting all this undeserved attention and praise.

She pulled herself back up to balance on her elbows, her eyes glancing swiftly around the room, searching for the man responsible for her beautiful 'bed' of roses. Her heart rate only increased as her search proved fruitless, and she absently touched her lips as she remembered the impassioned kiss she'd shared with Erik just hours ago, staring blankly at her reflection in the glassy mirror before her.

She gasped and whirled around as her reflection was suddenly joined by the impatient shoes of two stubborn women, both of whom clapped their hands to differing parts of the face at the surprising sight that greeted them.

Meg pushed past her immobile mother to stand blankly before Christine, little red mouth wide open and astonished gaze focussed entirely, uncomfortably, on poor Christine's speechless form. Madame Giry finally broke out of her gaping shock and pulled her daughter back a little, so that she wasn't towering quite so threateningly over Christine.

"_Ma chérie_," she started faintly, shaking her head a little with bewilderment. "What- why- how-"

The usually-succinct woman seemed quite put off her game, her clear, biting tone evaporating as entirely as the morning mist, having to resort to simply staring at Christine like her daughter.

Christine gazed desperately around for some distraction, some miraculous way through which she could avoid the inevitable explanations, embarrassments, that would surely follow this hilariously disgraceful state she had been discovered in. There was no man with her now, of course, but she knew it would only take so much time before Madame Giry clicked on to who must have been responsible for the flowers, and that dreadful information, coupled with Meg's rudely blatant statement from the day before, would surely bring all kinds of improper scenarios to the sharp mother's head…

Alas, nothing appeared, not a timely carriage collision from the streets outside, not a dangerous thunderstorm, not the squeak of a rat came by to delay Christine's dreaded explanation.

Meg fell to her knees heavily outside the circle of roses, gingerly dabbing at one of them with a cautious finger, as if the Phantom himself could be hiding inside, waiting to kiss _her_. She started to lift the rose by its graceful stem, but was stopped immediately by the steady hand of Christine, who was shocked herself by her own strange action. Meg dropped the flower guiltily, and met Christine's terrified gaze with wary eyes. As soon as the girl saw her friend's almost tearful dread, she looked up behind her and saw her mother acting rather oddly.

Madame Giry had stooped down in silence to touch a petal herself, as if to prove that they were indeed real, before slowly making her way over to the inert mirror behind the two girls. She stood, hands on narrow hips, an unmistakable look of amazing fury beginning to build upon her sharply angular visage, directing her wrath entirely into the blank glass.

Although Meg was not able to comprehend what on earth Madame Giry was doing, she was very familiar with her mother's anger, having been on the receiving end of it more than most. Any bitter feelings she may have held against Christine flew away instantly; she ignored the roses entirely, and any disgraceful consequences they might have had, and focussed on helping her friend out of this sticky situation she had somehow landed herself in.

Meg was not a mean-spirited girl by any means; she could be awfully impressionable and stuck in her own straight opinions, but a loyal heart lay behind the pretty face and blonde hair. She knew that whatever dreadful lecture was about to be unleashed upon Christine was at least partly her fault, and deep down she felt enormous guilt and remorse for her childish actions of the previous day. Steadfast in her resolve, she gritted her teeth, climbed shakily to her knees and prepared to somehow distract her mother.

Unfortunately, wakened from her wrathful death glares into the mirror, Madame Giry grabbed her daughter and whirled her effortlessly outside the room, shutting the door with violent emphasis, and leaving very little between Christine and her anger.

"What on earth happened here last night, Christine?"

Christine continued to stare down into her lap, her legs folded awkwardly beneath her, her tangled curls forming a curtain around her head. She didn't know what she could say to Madame Giry.

The woman crossed and uncrossed her arms, brushing her palms briskly down her sides, straightening and smoothening, then folding her arms tightly once more.

"Why are there so many roses?" she asked wearily.

Christine glanced up a little at the gorgeous spectacle the flowers made, their blood red contrasting aesthetically with her dark floorboards and white sheets. She shook her head a little in bewilderment, and dropped her gaze once more.

Madame Giry closed her eyes, holding back words that might be regretted, attempting to pick and choose motherly cautions and reprimands with no avail.

"Was it him?" she asked suddenly, and then laughed dryly. "Well, of course it was him," she muttered, almost to herself, and then shot her glare back to Christine. "Do you know how improper this looks, Christine? Do you know what dreadful explanations are simply flooding into my mind? You did not return to your bed last night after that awful scene, yet you are now in different clothes-"

At this, Christine's eyes shot down to her body, and she gasped as she realised that the woman spoke truthfully. A hot flush flooded into her cheeks, and she eyes grew wider with a new, mortified shame. What a wicked girl she was!

Madame Giry continued ruthlessly. "You could not be found by anyone last night, the door to this dressing room was locked- though it seems to have been miraculously unlocked sometime this morning- and now Meg and I come here as a last resort to find you lying on the floor surrounded by roses!" She cried out the last few words incredulously, bringing one disbelieving hand to her cheek as she gazed confoundedly at the circle of roses.

Christine, still silent, still at a loss of what to say or do to apologise, to explain to the Madame, wrung her hands in desperate agitation. She closed her eyes and tried to come up with any kind of answer for Madame Giry's merciless admonishments, but could only come up with one, one thrillingly forbidding image of herself kissing Erik in the middle of the night, and then allowing him to stay with her with nary a thought against the propriety of the situation.

Obviously, none of this was fit for Madame Giry's agitated ears, and so Christine remained silent, loath to lie, turning her averted gaze to rest almost desperately upon the closed, empty screen of glass and silver that was her mirror, so blank and yet so promising.

Madame Giry noticed the direction of Christine's gaze, and sighed despairingly, clapping her hands to her eyes and pacing around, pivoting very precisely on her heel upon reaching a corner of the small room.

"What kind of a mother lets her daughter into such situations?" she muttered despondently to herself. "And the good one, too! Where in the world have I gone so dreadfully wrong?"

It was to both of their extreme shock when the mirror slammed self-righteously to one side, Christine jerking away from the screen involuntarily. Erik himself stepped right through, cloak brushing the floor, his dark night colours appearing bizarre in the pale light of day.

"Enough!" he said seethingly to the very startled Madame Giry, who had clutched her hands to her chest in fright. "You act like she's just gone and placed herself on the market! For goodness sake!"

He paced up and down forebodingly, gesturing violently towards where Christine sat silently upon the floor, seeming to ignore her completely as he directed his antagonism towards Madame Giry.

"You seem to be implying that Christine, a good, sweet, innocent girl, could willingly allow- such indecency- to occur!"

"I never mentioned the word "willingly"," Madame Giry spat, returning the glare wholeheartedly back to Erik, having recovered from her initial shock.

Erik whirled himself around upon those words, and faced away from the two women as he exhaled violently, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.

"Antoinette," he breathed heavily, still facing the wall. "Would you accuse me of such wicked sin so readily?"

Madame Giry glanced around the room in agitation, not missing the look of hurt reproach on Christine's face, her gaze upturned now that the attention was not focussed directly upon her. The woman sighed with annoyance and shifted her feet.

"I suppose not, Erik. Though you must of course realise what such a scene implies-"

"I do not, Madame." Erik replied icily, turning back around fluidly. "Do you not remember your seventeenth birthd-"

"Well of course," Madame Giry interrupted uncomfortably, shifting her weight.

"And do you not recall a certain lack of… that which this scene apparently implies?"

"Of course," she answered quickly, flushing slightly. "Though it does not take much curiosity to wonder just precisely what sparked this little party for the florists, Erik."

Christine could feel the two sets of eyes boring into her, though she didn't dare to meet them. A blush had settled back into her cheeks with a sense of growing familiarity, and she carefully occupied herself by examining her nails.

"My daughter mentioned something of quite an interesting nature yesterday afternoon," Madame Giry continued, her voice breaking the uncomfortable silence, and filling the air with a sense of even further embarrassment for Christine. "I should remind you both to act sensibly. You especially," she said forebodingly, looking at Erik directly, acting every bit the disgruntled mother. "We'll continue this discussion later today, Christine," she said briskly, before stalking out, slamming the door shut.

And Christine was left there, still on the floor, still with a blush, with even more to explain to Erik in the glaring light of day, with no shadows to gain bravado from.

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**A/N: Alas! Yet more embarrassment and need of explanations for Christine! When will her torment end? Well, lol, as I quite like a bit of angst, I don't know… but it won't stay as awkward as this forever.**

**I've read this type of scenario in many different phics, the whole 'Madame Giry thinks Erik's gone and forced Christine into doing several unmentionably enticing (for a few of you) things'. Hopefully I've kept things relatively fresh and in character, but please do mention something if I've dramatically destroyed a character for you in any way.**

**By the way, it has been mentioned that there's not a lot of action in this story for a T rating, and I apologise for all those people interested in that kind of stuff. The thing is, I'm not sure how I'm going to end up setting things out, and I thought it'd be better to be safe rather than sorry. I'm not an author who's prepared to write strongly descriptive… scenes, just due to personal choice, but there will definitely be more full-on fluff.**

**With the whole answering everyone's reviews thing, I'm very sorry- I really love to hear from you and answer your review- but my life is incredibly busy at the moment, and I really don't have time. I will, however, answer any questions you ask. Know that I take all suggestions and comments on board! (And the longer and more detailed the better!)**

**Chibi Binasu-chan: Erik's eyes are pale blue, very intense and just plain HOT. They're not boyish blue, but intense blue, if you know what I mean. I think I just made up a colour. ;)**

**Cupid&Psyche4ever: I don't know how to answer your wedding question. Let's just say I haven't, in my extreme organization, entirely decided yet. :) But I do like marriage phics too.**

**Please keep enjoying and reviewing (and enjoying reviewing too).**

**Cheerio!**


	13. Eavesdropping

**A/N: A quote from Shakespeare:**

_**I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes,**_

_**And but thou love me, let them find me here;**_

_**My life were better ended by their hate,**_

_**Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.**_

**Doesn't that just fit the Phantom perfectly? –dreamy sigh- Anyhow, you should probably move on now to slightly less acclaimed literature. :) Enjoy!

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Christine focussed resolutely on the dull floorboards, trying not to listen to the faint sound of footsteps from beyond the closed door, trying not to imagine what Erik must be doing at that moment. She could very easily picture his foreboding visage atop Madame Giry's disapproving body, back stiffly straight, arms on irritated hips. She clapped a hand unwillingly to her face to cover a smile as the image presented itself to her frazzled mind, and slipped her other hand over the first, groaning slightly into her fingers as she remembered herself and her somewhat difficult current situation.

"Party for the florists," Erik muttered deprecatingly to himself, breaking the silence with a much-needed lightness. "That woman is always up and ready for the challenge of turning romance into cheap analogies." He shifted his weight slightly, and Christine flinched, hearing the floorboards squeak. "I really must try harder to put in the last word next time."

Christine turned her head slightly, peeping out to look at Erik wonderingly from around her clutching fingers. How could the man make light of such a wretchedly embarrassing, confronting situation? Exasperation soon began to replace her mortification.

"Some of what Madame Giry said did have its finer points, Erik," she said coolly, gaining courage from indignation. She gestured viciously towards her nightclothes, and shot her glare back to Erik. "Whatever happened last night, I do not recall surrendering my modesty to any man's eyes."

The Phantom laughed quietly, shaking his head fondly as he recognised the reason for her huff, an action seemingly so insensitive, so inadequate to Christine that her resentfulness grew tenfold.

Tears came to her eyes as Erik neglected to beg for forgiveness, or even explain himself, merely standing there, seeming to be simply amused. She angrily attempted to blink them away, but she could do nothing to hide them from her watchful companion.

He responded immediately to her tears, getting down on one knee before her and grasping her hand, the lightness of his humour immediately changing to utter earnestness as he gently nudged away the escaped beads of salt.

"I could scarcely let you stay in that corset all night, Christine. The things do horrors to your lungs, compressing them so dreadfully all day. If it were up to me, you should not be allowed to wear one at-"

He stopped mid-sentence, as if abruptly aware of how risqué his opinions seemed. And possibly the man realised that such an explanation sounded somewhat inadequate to the much maligned Christine.

Her gaze remained stuck on the floor. She opened her mouth and drew in a ragged breath before speaking. "So you undressed me yourself and saw-"

"Christine, you have been a dancer at this opera house for years. Do you think I saw any more of your body than the hundreds of men watching eagerly at every performance you've attended in your tights and slight gatherings of material?"

Erik sighed, frustrated by her dazzling naivety. But as he sighed he only gathered her closer. Christine allowed herself to rest warmly, comfortably against his body, knowing that her shadowy companion probably saw no wrong in his actions, but still wanted to calm her, ease her foolish fears. She pulled a little fold of black material over her head as she suddenly recalled Madame Giry's admonitions, knowing that the woman deeply, severely disapproved of such improper insinuations.

She felt Erik smile, somehow, as she muttered almost inaudibly against his chest. "I'm sure you have seen more of my body than Madame Giry would willingly approve."

"I'm sure Firmin has seen more of your body than Madame Giry would approve," he said softly, a smile evident in his voice. Christine laughed slightly despite herself and burrowed closer, deeply comforted by the warm vibrations made within Erik's chest as he talked.

"Sing to me," she murmured, wanting the tender soothing to continue. Erik stiffened a little as he contemplated her request before shaking his head regretfully, unwinding the fold of cloak covering Christine's head, and gazing into her revealed, questioning eyes.

"I cannot at this moment, my angel."

"Why not?" Christine asked plaintively, leaning more heavily against his bent knee in childish protest.

Erik glanced away, reaching out one gloved hand and touching a black ribbon almost pensively before answering. "I came here in the middle of painting a scene which needs to be completed before its beautiful inspiration evades me."

Christine leant back a little and surveyed the roses herself. "Show me," she suddenly said, gazing straight back into Erik's eyes.

"Not yet, my angel. It is not good enough at this moment." He raised one gloved finger to rest on Christine's lips, forbidding her imminent protests, and sighed a little. "I will show you when it is finished."

Christine nodded mutely, and watched as Erik pulled himself up and departed her dressing room with a courteous bow, sliding the mirror smoothly shut behind him. Her eyes dropped to her attire, and her cheeks reddened slightly. She was only thankful that Meg had left the room before Madame Giry had made that particular reprimand.

She got to her feet stiffly, her muscles not having escaped the consequences of half a night spent sleeping against a door. She arched her back, stretched her arms slightly and turned her neck until she felt most of the tightness ease away, leaving only a petulant ache. She looked down at the ring of flowers with her hands on her hips, surveying them thoughtfully, a little smile brightening her eyes. Bending down, ignoring the cracking of her knees, she gathered them one by one into a heavy bundle and squeezed them determinedly into a vase, trying not to let the ribbons catch.

Christine left the bedding where it lay dishevelled on the floor, and hastily stole back to her empty dormitory. Slipping on a modest dark green dress, feeling it best to appear meek and reserved to the utmost degree for the poor Madame Giry, she dressed her hair hurriedly into a demure bun before pausing her rushed activity upon a glance at the big wooden clock hanging on the opposite wall.

There was no way known she could slip unnoticed into breakfast, late as she was; there would be even more whispers amongst the ballet rats if she tried. Christine was often praised for her punctuality and obedience, noted most resentfully by less organised girls. No, it was better that she leave the mystery open. Perhaps they would merely assume she was ill. Hopefully Meg would help to add authority to such a rumour.

So what was she to do for the next half hour, at least? She felt far too restless to simply sit there on her bed and stare at the desperately dawdling hour hand of the clock.

Christine brushed her hands decisively against the front of her skirt and made her way out of the room. She would practise her singing, that's what she'd do! Things had been so distracting lately that her voice felt almost entirely unused. It would be easy to find an empty room somewhere near her dressing room in which she could practise her scales.

The girl had just extended her arm to turn the handle of a room when she heard the unquestionable voice of an angry Madame Giry ring out, barely muffled by the heavy wood of the door, freezing Christine's hand in mid-air. She stared at the door curiously at this unexpected occurrence, before flushing and pulling away, knowing that any eavesdropping would surely be most disastrous for her should she be caught. But as the rusty, low tones of some cigar-smoking man whose voice she did not recognise rolled out to her very interested ears, she slowly stepped back towards the door and listened despite herself, pressing her ear closer and closer as the intriguing conversation continued.

"Madame Giry," the raspy voice said, a little persistent, almost wheedlingly. "Surely such a diligent woman as yourself knows the ins and outs of this opera house. Why, I'd expect a woman like yourself to be familiar with all sorts of interesting information- and people- that most of us aren't lucky enough to."

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I do not attempt to imagine where you must be going with these pointless compliments."

Christine smiled. Even intruding as she was, completely unaware as to the subject of their conversation, she could still recognise the sardonic sarcasm in Madame Giry's tone.

"Madame, I should let you know that I'm quite in the dark about this case. Quite in the dark. My men haven't been able to find anything useful, anything which could help to unearth the culprit."

"Yes, maybe unearthing's what he needs," Madame Giry muttered, obviously talking more to herself than to her companion.

"See, it's comments like that which make me curious about how much you truly know of this so-called 'Opera Ghost'," the man said dryly, suspicion evident in his tone.

Christine gasped silently, covering her mouth with a hand. This man, this inspector, as Madame Giry had called him, was here to find Erik! How on earth had he known to speak to the strict old ballet mistress?

"All I meant was that if this villain is indeed a ghost, perhaps it is underground, or in a cemetery that your men should be searching," Madame Giry answered lightly, in a careless manner which Christine knew hid a dry humour.

There came a short period of silence in the room, only the sound of heavy pacing footsteps entering Christine's ears. Finally the footsteps stopped, and the man began to try another tactic.

"How long have you been teaching here, Madame?"

"Almost twenty years, Monsieur," she answered stiffly. Christine could just imagine the thin lines her lips must be making.

"And in those twenty years you were never once curious about the origin of this elusive Opera Ghost, never heard gossip of his past, or knew anyone who might've seen this pranking poltergeist?"

"Of course. I believe the last man to have claimed to see him is now underground himself, Monsieur. The name of Joseph Buquet would probably ring quite a bell."

"But I am not after a ghost, Madame. I am not after some unnatural demon. I am after a man. And I believe you know who and where he is." The inspector's tone was crisp and triumphant, the man having finally been able to reach his point and who was readily awaiting an ensuing confession.

Christine could almost feel the frosty silence pour vaporously from the crack at the bottom of the door. She bit her lip apprehensively and almost wished there was a keyhole beneath the handle, through which she could see the room's occupants.

Finally Madame Giry spoke. "Who gives you the right to accuse me of such abhorrent treachery?" The icy tone would have frozen any poor ballet girl in the wrong had it been directed at her, and indeed it seemed to have effect on the man within the room.

"My good woman," he started precariously, "I did not mean to accuse such a fine citizen as yourself, but you must understand that I am under considerable pressure to uncover the identity of the murderer and bring him to justice! Now, please answer me truthfully: Are you or are you not privy to the ghost's secrets like the managers seem to believe you are?"

"I will not bring myself to answer to such an offensive allegation."

Christine panicked when she heard the very definite sound of Madame Giry's light footsteps approaching the door rapidly, and raced across the corridor to another door, which she ripped open and hurriedly entered, ignoring the dark inside. Once she had heard Madame Giry stalk safely away, she sighed thankfully and made to turn the handle of the door, knowing that further absence after breakfast would be remarkably unwelcomed by her currently incensed ballet mistress.

She screamed as a hand slid down upon her own, and turned violently to look behind her. All she saw was darkness.

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**A/N: Cliffhanger much:) **

**A new character has appeared although we have not yet physically met him, and the plot of the story thickens. Yes, as well as fluff, there will now be actual original story backing it up! In my opinion, fluff always tastes better when there's intrigue in the background. Not that I eat fluff too often. **

**I do have fun writing Madame Giry; she's such a great character. And if Christine seems to wishy-washy so far, I'm sorry, but you have to do certain things to maintain an image of utter naivety. And someone had to take up the feminine wake left by the absence of Raoul. :) **

**Chibi Binasu-chan: This being mild fluffy story it is, you can decide for yourself whether Erik got "naughty" or not. (Lol.) Hopefully I explained her clothes well enough in this chapter. Hope you get better soon!**

**Nini-sky: Will the fop cause more angst in their relationship? I do not believe so, but don't worry, there will soon emerge a new conflict that I judge much better than le Viscomte de Hairspray.**

**Welcome to all new reviewers! I greatly appreciate all your comments although I don't have time to answer them all. Hope you've enjoyed, and please review for me! **

**Cheers, Froody**


	14. Meeting

**A/N: Read on, fair viewers. Sorry it's taken so long to get a chapter out (and a really short one at that) but as a lot of you can probably sympathize with, I have exams next week, and my life is pretty much focussed (which IS a correct spelling ;)) entirely on calculus and other fun things like homeostasis and Hamlet.**

**Enjoy!

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The hand, smooth and cold to an extreme, as frighteningly impersonal as it is possible for a body part to be, did not so much as quiver at Christine's piercing scream. The poor girl was frozen there against the wall, not able to move but an inch, let alone an intruding hand. Her wide eyes, pupils dilated in the darkness, stared unblinkingly into the black before her, into a space sense told her must be filled with a corporeal being.

Before she could break out of her shock, to do who knows what, the door behind her suddenly slipped away, causing her to stumble, begin to fall backwards, her hand ripped violently out of the grasp of the unseen other. Light poured into the dark room, and Christine strained for a glimpse of her intruder, falling though she was, but it seemed that whoever, or whatever it was had left almost unnaturally swiftly.

Mere moments before hitting the carpeted floor of the hallway, Christine found herself caught most gracefully, two beefy, unfamiliar arms wrapped firmly around her middle. As soon as she had regained her balance, as quickly as only a well-trained dancer could, she pulled away, flushing, turning swiftly to discover her unknown rescuer.

Standing before her, thick moustache bristling in a worried, almost nonsensical way, stood a pudgy middle-aged man in a wide brown coat, a cigar clenched comically tightly between several yellow teeth. She stared for a moment, too taken by the spontaneity of the situation to remember her manners, surprised that such an awkward looking fellow could move to catch her so deftly.

The man cleared his throat uncomfortably after a few silent seconds, and shifted on his feet, hands in pockets, clearly at a loss as to how to begin.

"I say, Mademoiselle- I heard a scream and I thought somebody might be in trouble, you see. Your are quite alright, aren't you?"

Christine almost gaped upon hearing the newly familiar, gravely voice- it was the Inspector whom Madame Giry had just walked out on! Remembering the situation, and painfully clenching her jaw tightly to hide her surprise, she nodded, and attempted a smile.

"I'm awfully sorry for causing you to fall like that," the man continued, pulling earnestly at his moustache, the cigar waggling to and fro as he spoke. "Was there someone in there with you, bothering you?"

A sudden glint came to his eye, and he walked briskly to the open entrance of the dark room, pulling the door open to its full extent and allowing as much light as possible inside. Christine peered over his shoulder, anxious to know who her unseen companion had been. They both sighed with varying degrees of disappointment when their search proved fruitless, the Inspector chewing at his cigar with irritation.

"Sorry about that," he said suddenly, remembering himself. "I just thought- well, it's this case I have- quite extraordinary, but-"

Christine nodded mutely. Regaining some composure, and trying to avoid another awkward silence, she stepped back into the corridor, straightening her skirt, and smiled at the man. He had, after all, just saved her from whatever- whomever the cold hand had belonged to…

"Thank you very much for trying to help," Christine said quietly, her eyes serious above her meek smile. "I don't know what just happened, but there was someone in there with me-"

She stopped, not knowing what else to say. The Inspector nodded, and rotated the cigar adroitly in his teeth.

"Think nothing of it, Mademoiselle." He paused, frowning a little, and then continued. "What would your name be, then?"

Christine averted her eyes. What a perfectly ironic, untimely meeting! The Inspector, of all people. And she shuddered to think what Madame Giry would do should she find out about this little rendezvous. Unfortunately the girl was too honest and too frazzled to think up a lie.

"My name is Christine Daaé, Monsieur."

The Inspector's eyes widened considerably at this revelation. "So you're the famous Christine Daaé!" Eyes narrowing as his detective's brain began to make some very interesting connections, he rocked back on his heel and chewed heavily on his cigar. "I've heard of you," he said suddenly, pausing in his rocking and staring curiously at Christine, who felt nerves of apprehension begin to tighten in her stomach. The situation was becoming more and more uneasy.

"You have probably not been aware of my presence here for the last few days," he said slowly, a crafty, professional tone creeping back into his voice. "I have been privately hired by your two managers to settle some… recent disturbances."

Christine's stomach slowly began to drop as she remembered the Inspector's purpose, and desperately began to pray that he had heard of her name from opera critics, and not from gossip.

"What do you know of the so-called Opera Ghost?" he asked bluntly.

Christine abandoned her forcefully polite disposition and gasped aloud, barely restraining herself from clapping a hand over her mouth. The Inspector nodded with satisfaction, and pulled his cigar from his mouth with emphasis.

"I have heard a few things about this so-called 'Ghost' which seem to connect your name to his, Mademoiselle. Although your ballet mistress did not deem it necessary to inform me, I have an idea that most people around here know more than what they're willing to tell me." He took a long drag on the cigar, eyes focussed thoughtfully on the blank wall above Christine's head. "I will further discuss this matter with you tomorrow morning in the managers' office, Christine Daaé. Until then."

And with that, the broad-shouldered man swung around and walked leisurely down the corridor, leaving Christine still speechless without another word. As soon as his heavy footsteps had faded, only a vague, receding thumping remaining from a wooden floor some distance away, she clutched at her face, panic beginning to set in. What a disaster! How could she keep this from Madame now? What would Erik say?

Christine leaned heavily against the closed door directly behind her, burying her face in her sweaty palms, before suddenly remembering her frightening encounter in that very room just moments ago! She tore off down the corridor, the opposite way that infuriatingly shrewd inspector had taken, her destination the last thing on her mind.

Gone was her worry about being missed in rehearsals, gone were the faint pangs of hunger, gone was her sense of direction…

It was only when Christine reached the end of a discontinued corridor that she halted her panicky half-run, heart pounding violently. She gazed around the dull, cobwebby space, recognising nothing in the peculiarly high windows, the faded carpet, the dusty vases on squat, cheap tables. Evidently this was not a commonly used passageway, and Christine felt she had never come this way before in all her years at the opera house. Her tracks alone marked the carpet, the light squeezing in through the small windows illuminating great swirls of airborne dust.

Although the corridor itself ended, its final wall held a grand wooden door, its elaborate oak belying the poor quality of the other items crowded to the sides of the narrow passageway. Christine stared at it warily. She felt she had suffered quite enough shocks this morning already, and didn't know whether or not she should tempt fate by obeying her gnawing curiosity and discovering what lay beyond it.

But like her removal of the Phantom's mask, her commonsense shattered already by extreme stress, she felt she couldn't stand another mystery, and stepped forward determinedly, grasping the smooth handle firmly. With a quick turn she threw the door open before she lost her daring, and blinked for a moment in the sudden rush of sunlight before gazing open-mouthed at the incredible sight before her.

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**A/N: Another cliffhanger? Mais oui. For I couldn't resist. And also, it was approximately 11 pm at night when I finished, so if I'd continued it would've been nonsensical. Both to do AND to read. :)**

**It's Saturday morning so I have a little time; I think I'll use it to reply to random readers!**

**Chibi Binasu-chan: That quote was from Romeo and Juliet, which, while it can't contend with its big brother Hamlet in terms of plot, contains the most beautiful language ever written. And Leo! Lol. Now, when you ask whether I'd been planning this sudden plot twist… would you respect me more if I said yes:) See, I live on the edge. I thought the story needed a little more drama and tension. So I popped in cigar guy! Don't worry, I actually do have it planned from now. (Besides, it was chapter THIRTEEN, so I was allowed.)**

**Lisha Lane, ErikMySweet, the Mouse in the Opera House: Wait and see! How irritatingly mysterious I am:)**

**Mystery Guest: Poor, compromised Christine's reputation. Pfff. I'm still utterly jealous. :)**

**Phantomphorever: Love the name by the way. I agree, I need to find a man to do the rose petal thing. -Where art thou Gerard?-**

**IceCliff: Erik saw just as much as most people would see when they remove someone else's corset. Hmm, that does seem a little… risqué, eh:) Oh well, there might be further mentions of the corset a little later…**

**Ducky in Spandex, starryspark: Yay, you like the new character! I was hoping people would. Like, I know it seems like a really random, sudden change, but I wanted a little more action…**

**Nini-sky: Aw, you're so sweet! I love Erik too… -stop drooling Fiona!- Keep enjoying!**

**Thanks so much to all who've said they're enjoying the story, it makes my day it does. I'm a needy girl, I am. Keep reviewing, keep reading, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THE NEW PLOT THING! Should I continue like this or would you prefer straight E/C? Cause there will be more E/C soon!**

**Joy to the world,**

**Froody**


	15. Room

**A/N: A lengthier chapter than some previous ones, the product of a couple of breaks taken in between pages and pages of _Gone With the Wind_, an amazing book which I'm sure most of you will recognise, and sympathise when I say it's as thick as a five storey block of Cadbury chocolate, but more satisfying (until you come to the end, of course.) Enjoy this chapter; I can feel the fluff coming on… -sniffs the air-

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The particles of dust floating lazily through the air were innumerable as the yellow light streamed eagerly through the many oddly clean windows lining the walls of this long room. It was like a place from another world, far away from the garish, colourful blaze of cheap crassness backstage in the Opera House. The still, silent, sunny room was just as bizarrely different to the extravagant ornamentation of the theatre's beautiful front and its carpeted halls. There was a sense of peace in the constantly moving quietness of the setting.

How fascinating it was to the entranced Christine that such a place could be presided over by the mysterious, passionate dweller of all things dark who haunted her mind…

For this was unmistakeably a secret place belonging to him. Somehow it must be, somehow the past and present managers had missed this private room in their proud and pompous rounds, missed it like they avoided most of the worker's quarters. All in all, it wasn't that surprising really, that this room hadn't been discovered. The managers, old or new, notoriously neglected their 'housekeeping' duties, preferring to enjoy a satisfying seclusion within their luxurious office.

Christine noted, however, that it was odd that the Phantom had apparently been so careless, leaving the door unlocked for anyone to simply wander in as she had. A faint feeling of apprehension worked its way to the back of her mind, but she just assumed that his mundane, human side was finally peeping through, had he forgotten to lock up.

Christine had found a room in Erik's underground lair that seemed to be dedicated to her, with dolls and portraits and sketches and all manner of creations graced with her image. That was all for her. This room, so oddly detached from all Christine had come to associate with Erik, seemed to be similarly focussed on a solitary person- but this was much more personal.

Christine felt inexplicably guilty as she stepped over the threshold, her delicate shoes treading timidly from dull wooden floorboards to faded crimson carpet, covered with a thin layer of somehow comforting dust. She slowly peered up from examining the carpet, unnervingly intrigued by the objects filling the room, her curiosity once more over-ruling all sense of trepidation.

What to look at first? Christine had no interest in the bundles of money chaotically placed upon the top of an old wooden desk. She was more interested in the closed drawers beneath, promisingly clean of any dust. Holding her breath in excitement, she grasped the brass handle of the top drawer and pulled it roughly before she could lose her nerve. The drawer slid cleanly out, but Christine gave a small sigh of disappointment. More tied-up bundles of notes. The girl felt no surge of greed, had no sneaky thoughts of slipping a couple of stacks into her corset. Her curiosity was simply that; there was no sly ambition pushing her on.

The rest of the drawers were filled similarly, the last displaying an interesting selection of foreign notes and coins. Christine picked up one coin with interest, recognising it as Swedish currency. A feeling of sadness soon perturbed her, however; the coin could not help but remind her of her poor but happy life with her father, the two of them busking for coins worth much less than this one. She replaced the coin gently and shut the drawer firmly, climbing slowly to her feet as she considered her next action.

Examining the chest of drawers first had been an easy decision to make. The money-covered desk was by far the least potentially-threatening item in the large room. Everything else presented much greater discomfort for Christine's wavering conscience.

She lifted her head and allowed herself a quick glance to the bench next to the desk. At first she had thought that this bench held an assortment of costumes from previous operas, perhaps souvenirs from long ago. But Christine had known that mere souvenirs would not grace a room of obvious importance to Erik- and she had suspected what she now recognised.

Masks. Row upon row of masks, hung by the eyeholes upon little hooks above the bench. Their stark whites and blacks were a terrifying sight to behold all in one location. At one end of the row hung a small, ragged sack, the grime still easily visible through layers and layers of dust. Next to this sack was a small full mask, black in colour, and hardly intimidating compared to its followers. At the opposite end of the eerie queue was a mask Christine did not recognise, black and relatively short. She imagined that it would not cover much more than a typical masquerade mask would. Christine didn't like it at all.

Averting her eyes from this somehow disquieting black mask, Christine gazed down upon the actual bench, a feeling of compassion filling her every inch. Small wooden bowls holding a variety of plasters and ground up ivory lined the front. A few unlabelled bottles stood together near the back of the bench, undoubtedly holding polish and whatever other materials needed for sculpting masks.

What effort went into the business! And every second spent crafting a mask must have been a dagger blow to Erik's soul. Such effort to hide yourself from the hateful world. Tears filled Christine's eyes, and sniffing slightly, she turned away.

The sunlight was no longer pleasant to Christine as she imagined her poor Erik labouring in misery, alone in this room. She ran her eyes over the other benches and desks, seeing bundles of expensive cloth, a tottering pile of ragged programs from what Christine imagined to be every performance she had made an appearance in at the Opera Populaire, a table piled high with what were undoubtedly punjab lassoes…

She shivered, shutting her eyes against the unwelcome images of death and worse, murderous intent, surrounding some mysterious cruelty in her angel that she, in her innocence, could not hope to understand. Christine did not want to understand anymore. She had heard Erik's dreadful explanation, and that had been enough for her; it was enough for her to know that his soul and conscience were alive sufficiently to experience some guilt for his actions. But she did not understand it still, and she hoped never to be forced to have to.

It might have been merely her imagination, but upon glancing back upon the knotted pile, Christine's eyes picked up maybe a hint of dust covering the ropes. Whether this was an attempt by her mind to quiet her nerves, or a proof that the Phantom had calmed his violent activities in recent times, she did not venture closer to discover the truth.

Instead, she walked carefully over to the opposite side of the room, her guilty nerves making her extra cautious, giving the benches and tables wide birth lest she disturb something. She stopped a metre or so away from a wide mahogany table situated directly beneath the widest window in the room. Christine could not tell that the wood was mahogany from the surface, rather from the thickset solid legs of the table that stood firmly on the carpet.

The surface was completely covered with a large cotton tablecloth, starched and very clean, despite what lay scattered upon its white surface. Roses, handfuls of roses, their long stems bare of offending thorns, their petals full and mostly symmetrical, prime examples of their species. These were no doubt the flowers that found their way into her hands every so often, after a performance, or a good lesson, or last night…

Christine shook her head with mild disbelief. It was simply amazing that so many roses found their way into her wondering hands over all those years, all breathtakingly perfect in their form. She had no doubt that few of the roses lying before her would progress to wearing a black ribbon. There were too many on the desk to be given to her, and too many suffered slight imperfections that the perfectionist would not condone.

There was not a vase of water to be seen on the table, just unadorned roses lying there, cut out of their natural state. For a few moments their ardent crimson caused Christine's eyes to linger over them, their scent distracting her from her curious search. But soon she managed to tear her eyes away, and saw that a thick reel of black ribbon lay directly behind the flowers on the white cloth, a sharp pair of metal scissors completing the picture. She reached over and ran her finger along the edge of the ribbon, a shiver coursing through her as she felt the familiar silkiness.

"Forgive me for intruding," a quiet, steady voice from behind her said, causing Christine to bolt a step away from the table and spin around, eyes wide with apprehension and guilt. It was, of course, Erik standing there watching her, his back straight, though he made a point of leaning against a bench. He could undoubtedly see her enormous discomfort and humiliation in being caught in such a prying position, but he continued nonetheless.

"I see you're enjoying my roses," he stated calmly, strolling casually over to the table, walking past her speechless inertia without comment, leaving her to swing herself stiffly around to watch his actions. Christine could barely breath, such was her sense of horror at being caught while snooping through his most private area.

Erik picked up a bare rose absently, twirling the stem around in its fingers, watching the petals flare slightly outwards as it rotated wildly. Turning back to Christine, the rose still grasped between two fingers, Erik smiled slightly, a wry, empty smile that only sparked more anxious guilt in the poor girl.

"You did not believe that I stripped your roses of their thorns in the relative darkness of my home, did you? I find that a lack of light spells more than a bit of pain in the process."

Christine barely absorbed the words, hardly understanding why she had not been punished yet for her dishonourable actions. As Erik's smile was replaced with a look of much more foreboding connotations, an intensely pensive gaze directly into her frightened eyes, she couldn't help but flinch a little.

As he began to step slowly away from the table, head bowed, his expression unreadable for all of the brightness of the room, Christine jolted her hand out and onto his arm without thinking. Erik turned sharply to look at her, and all she could think to do was choke out a quiet apology, her eyes flickering away from his gaze in shame.

Erik stepped back, closer to her again, taking her cold little hand in his own gloved fingers and opening his mouth as if to speak, but it was as if he thought the better of it, and started walking away once more. Christine felt like calling out, like she needed to discuss what she'd seen, to apologise again and again until he'd finally forgiven her. But words stuck in her throat, and she could only feel a vague, numb relief when he stopped before his bench of mask supplies, examining them silently, hands clasped firmly together behind his back.

This time it was Christine who moved, who stepped quickly over to where Erik stood silently, standing next to him, gazing uncertainly up at his unreadable eyes.

Erik bowed his head for a moment, then turned his gaze upon her once more. "You are not too frightened of me now, are you?" he asked quietly in a dull, passionless voice.

Christine shook her head violently, surprised that this was the first question asked of her. "Of course not," she replied with a much stronger voice, even managing to endure his burning gaze for a few moments before dropping her eyes.

Erik nodded silently, accepting her answer with a weary air of relief. "I suppose I must have wanted you to find this place," he said slowly. "I am not in the habit of leaving my private spaces open for public viewing, but for some reason my mind has slipped lately, allowing me to leave all sorts of places personal to me unguarded."

Upon these vaguely ambiguous words, Christine snuck a quick glance up at her companion, maybe in the hopes of seeing her angel unguarded for once, his emotions displayed prominently atop his mask, perhaps. But his face held nothing but the previous preoccupation, and she flicked her gaze back upon the floor with a bit of disappointment.

"How did you find your way here, anyway?" Erik asked enquiringly, his eyes narrowed at the thought. "It isn't like this room is situated in the most busy part of the Opera House."

All in a rush, the memories of Christine's awful encounter with that infuriatingly curious inspector rushed back, and her hand leapt to her cheek as she recalled the awful predicament she had now found herself in. Her eyes darted up to Erik's frowning gaze, the man completely perplexed by her sudden change of temperament.

"Oh, Erik," she started despondently, wringing her hands a little in consternation. "You must have heard of that dreadful inspector going around, looking for information on the famous Opera Ghost."

Upon these words Erik's eyes narrowed perceptibly with anger. "What has he done to you, Christine?" he spat furiously, his eyes twitching unconsciously to the nearby table with the punjabs.

Christine grabbed his arm, drawing his eyes back to her own pleading ones. "Nothing yet, Erik. But he found me alone, and I- I told him my name, and now he has set up a meeting in the manager's office tomorrow morning!"

Erik pulled away violently upon these words, beginning to pace up and down the length of the room aggressively. "He suspects that you know me, or more about me than most people at the Opera House. He's undoubtedly heard the gossip connecting your name to some mysterious stranger who seems to provide you with the means of advancing your career within the Opera Populaire. What the devil are you to do tomorrow morning?"

"I don't know," Christine whispered, almost in tears. She leaned in to Erik's warm embrace as he hurriedly approached her, quieting her a little with the thankful stability his arms provided. She absently felt his chin leave the top of her head after a minute.

"We must speak to your beloved Madame," Erik said decisively, his tone leaving no doubt that this social visit was indeed a last resort.

Christine nodded, though inwardly her heart sank. There was going to be a lot of explaining for her to do, possibly more than she would have to give in the dreaded interview tomorrow.

No more was mentioned about what Christine had witnessed there in the quiet, sunny room as Erik guided her gently to the door. She gave a thankful little prayer for that much as he turned his back to lock the door behind them. She leant her head back against his arm as they began towards Madame's private study.

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**A/N:** **A smile and a nod to all those of you who graciously accepted my somewhat sudden entrance in the department of not-immediately-EC-plot. I am having fun with this, and as you see, there is still going to be much EC alone togetherness. And I do think it makes the story a tiny bit more realistic. For all of my cynics, I'm sorry, but I'm just trying to keep the uniqueness and interestingness of my story up a little. **

**(Oh, and I updated today especially for AufdemOper who told me to update just now and made me remember. :))**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: Yay, you're back! I did miss your reviews. :) But I completely understand about the horrors of computers and technology in general. Am I the only one who secretly feels that my internet connections holds me in contempt? Thanks for the complimentary review- and yes, I'm freezing slowly to death with stupid Melbourne coldness. **

**The Mouse in the Opera House: Glad you're back anyway. :) **

**Chibi Binasu-chan: Oh, you mean so by saying this stuff and acknowledging your comments I'm disobeying the awesome power of this fabulous website? (flattery can get you out of most things. :)) Ah well. I can't help myself. I apologise now, but I'll keep typing anyway. Well, at least you're mother believes in me. :) You know the source of the randomness now, and I'd prefer to call my insanity "creativity." Thanks for the detailed review!**

**A good-tempered donkey to everyone who reviewed, and an overtly hairy mule to those who don't- hey, at least I'm still giving you something. :) Hope you enjoyed, now hit that review button!**

**-Froody**


	16. Recount

**A/N: Yay, hasn't been that long since my last update! Hope you enjoy the chappie!

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Christine absent-mindedly began to straighten her clothes once the couple had silently stolen their way to a more recognisable section of the Opera House. Somehow Erik had managed to take a very precise path to Madame Giry's room so that they had reached her corridor in practically no time at all- or so it seemed to the apprehensive Christine. She could practically hear the foreboding frostiness flow from beneath their destined door. As her nervous hands left her dress and began smoothening her hair, she suddenly found that her frazzled motions had been stopped. Looking up and then sideways with a small smile, she stopped, the Phantom with her, still holding both of her hands within his on her hair.

"How intriguing," Erik said blandly, seemingly ignoring their clasped hands and staring with mild interest at the door near the end of the corridor. "I'd have personally considered myself to be the more fearsome compared to our lovely Madame."

Christine flushed and withdrew her hands reluctantly as Erik released them from his grip. She avoided his eyes, whose gaze she felt upon her face once again, and looked at the door herself, silently.

The Phantom clasped his gloved fingers behind his back, and leant back on his heels almost playfully, switching his gaze back to the door as if aware of its effect on Christine. "Should I be offended by this lack of mortal fear, Christine, or delighted?"

Christine went even redder, and refused to answer, to continue Erik's little game. Of course he was attempting to dispel a little of her anxiety, but how embarrassing it was to know that Erik knew she was scared of her ballet teacher!

Erik sighed dramatically, shaking his head very slowly. "Well then, she's done it. That woman beats me at everything. The dancing, the aura of menace… what have I left but for my superior musical talent? But I expect she'll soon be intruding on that creative field at this rate. Watch out, Carlotta."

A smile pricked up the corners of Christine's mouth almost against her will, and she glanced at Erik from the corner of her eye, puzzled but pleased at his obliging thoughtfulness.

"I suppose I had better get the explanations over with," she sighed, picking up her feet and beginning a slow plodding tread down the corridor. She halted mid-step as Erik suddenly swept before her, the humour gone from his face, a deeply serious expression intensifying his gaze.

"There is no need to mention my room," he stated bluntly, holding her eyes mercilessly with his own.

Christine nodded breathlessly, frozen in her tracks. Once he had moved safely back to her side she broke out of her position, and began to walk more quickly towards the door.

There was barely a tremor in her hand as she reached up jerkily to knock, and the pause was hardly noticeable before Christine balled her hand into a fist resolutely and tapped on the door. Erik said nothing at what might have provoked him into further jest at Christine's expense, his humour having dissolved into a brooding silence.

When no answer came upon Christine's knocking, she turned abruptly, her face lighting up with very obvious relief, and she had opened her mouth as if to tell Erik that they would have to return later when suddenly the door swung open. There stood a suspicious Madame Giry, no doubt expecting the Inspector to have returned for a few more intruding questions. At the sight of a stunned Christine and a silent Erik, her thin lips only tightened, and she shook her head tetchily even as she beckoned them inside.

Christine twisted her hands wretchedly within her skirts, wishing she was in some other place, any other situation with anyone else. Madame Giry did not offer either of them a seat, taking one most irately herself, leaving them both standing, Christine rather awkwardly, Erik as if quite used to it. Clearing her throat nervously, Christine took an initiative and plopped herself dejectedly onto a wooden stool.

"I take it this delightful visit is not one made for pleasant chatter about the weather?" Madame Giry spoke wryly, her tone lighter than Christine would have expected from her after their last meeting.

"The Inspector has arranged a meeting with Christine tomorrow morning to discuss the whereabouts of the Opera House's most lovable acquisition," Erik said coldly, bluntly cutting to the chase, ignoring Madame's dry comment. "I am rather anxious to avoid some of the possible outcomes of such a meeting."

Christine found it most unexpected that when Madame Giry's eyes flicked quickly over to her slumped position, they were filled with a shocked understanding and not blame. It seemed that the formidable woman shared some of her sense of horror at the thought of such a meeting, and it was the fact that this sympathy appeared on Madame Giry's face before any semblance of anger that reminded Christine of the maternal position the ballet mistress filled in her life. Shame quickly flooded through Christine's body, making her stare at her feet in self-reproval of her previous fear.

"Whatever shall she do?" Madame Giry asked faintly, worry lining her face quickly as the possible consequences of the meeting slowly sank in. "If that blasted Inspector found out that Christine was harbouring such a renowned villain then she would face most serious charges!"

Erik rolled his eyes; Christine could not see the Phantom's face, but she knew him well enough to understand the short silence that met Madame's tense words. "Not to mention the danger my estimable position would face, Madame, but yes, Christine would be in considerable trouble."

"However did this Inspector find you anyhow, Christine?" Madame Giry asked sharply, looking down to the quiet girl, guiltily avoiding her glare. "It has been barely two hours since I last saw you, and the Inspector was questioning me for a good part of an hour!"

Christine groaned inwardly, having hoped that the Madame's insightful, protective instincts wouldn't have kicked in so soon, but quickly gathered herself, and raised her eyes reluctantly to meet the woman's sharp gaze. She noticed that Erik had stepped forward as well, and was regarding her with interest.

"After you left me, Madame, I went to the dormitory and changed. By the time I had finished I decided that it would be better to delay for a while until warm-ups were underway, as my absence at breakfast would be far less obvious than wandering in late. I thought that I might practise a few scales in the spare time I had, so I made my way to a room which I fully expected to be empty. You were in that room, Madame, with a man whom I believe was the Inspector. I-"

Here Christine paused for a moment, knowing that her next words would surely be met with the disapproval of the listening Madame Giry, but continued with a sigh.

"I eavesdropped on the conversation you were having, Madame. I know I shouldn't have, but I was quite intrigued when I didn't recognise the voice replying to yours, and when I heard Erik mentioned…"

"Go on," Madame Giry said brusquely, her words and her tone betraying no great disapproval from the woman. Christine realised vaguely that having the inquisitive Meg as a daughter would surely dull the edge of any such confessions of dishonesty, and received enough courage from this comforting thought that she dared to look past the woman's enquiring gaze and into light blue eyes revealing a hidden smile behind Erik's straight face.

"When you had finished your conversation, I- I decided that it would be best to make use of the empty room on the opposite side of the corridor-"

"In other words," Erik put in dryly, a smile now clearly evident on his face, "You decided to make a break for it while you still could."

Christine flushed, and nodded reluctantly. She stole a glance at Madame Giry, and was quite amazed to catch sight of an amused smile, quickly hidden behind a hand. Looking at her feet, she continued. "While I was in the room, I heard you walking away, Madame, and I was about to open the door and follow you to warm-ups when suddenly…" She frowned, her forehead furrowed as she remembered the strange and puzzling event which followed. "Suddenly a hand grabbed mine, and I screamed!"

She looked up to find that the smile on Erik's face had been replaced with a frown reflecting her own.

"The next thing I knew, the door had been opened from behind me, and I fell backwards, straight into the Inspector's arms!"

"Whoever could that have been?" Madame Giry asked, glancing around at Erik with narrowed eyes.

He missed her look, however, his head bowed in thought, arms folded securely within his cloak. "We must investigate this ourselves," he replied. Looking back up, he caught Christine's eye with an inquisitive gaze. "I take it our noble Inspector suspected the infamous Ghost?"

Christine nodded mutely, discomfort creeping back into her as she was affected by the worry of her two companions.

"But the unknown person is of less significance to us at this moment than our current problem of Christine's meeting," Madame Giry reminded sharply. "I feel the girl should not attend that meeting alone. It leaves her in too vulnerable a position."

Erik nodded. "I would, of course, volunteer, did I feel it would improve the situation in the slightest, however…"

Madame Giry nodded back curtly. "Of course." She sighed. "I will accompany her, though it might seem a little unusual."

"Of course not!" Christine said suddenly, without thinking. She cleared her throat with a little embarrassment as both Erik and Madame Giry glanced at her sharply. "I mean, of course, that it would not seem strange in the slightest. Madame Giry is my guardian."

Madame Giry nodded, with a trace of a smile, and a gentleness softening the lines of her face.

"Now," Erik started firmly, piercing Christine with another of his intense looks. "Your Madame and I must discuss this additional problem of the stranger you have mentioned."

Christine lowered her eyes in acquiescence, a little hurt at such an obvious dismissal, but aware of the necessity of such a discussion. She stood up slowly from her armchair and walked into the corridor, shutting the door gently behind her. Grinning, she wondered how she would fare should she eavesdrop once more on this very intriguing conversation, but decided against it. How much leniency would be given to her after all the unexpected kindness from Madame Giry?

She glanced up at the clock above the doorway and set off at a quick pace down the corridor. If she hurried, she could make it to lunch on time, and hopefully avoid too many questions.

* * *

**A/N: There we are. You've probably realised by now that I love writing Madame Giry's character. Don't worry; there will be more E/C stuff very soon, but this plot's getting interesting, even for me:)**

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: How awesome are holidays! I forgot that you start on the same day as me. :) What year are you in? I have all this methods homework (I'm doing ¾) but yeah, it's mostly good. Wow, thanks for all the compliments about the chapter; I really enjoyed writing it. I just think that there's so much left unexplained about the realities of Erik's life that hasn't been explored. **

**AufdemOper: The comment about my 'unique style of writing' is just the best compliment I could receive. There are so many phics out there it's hard to be original, so thank you! **

**Mominator: Yes, it was the Don Juan mask, well done for picking that up. I was hoping it'd be obvious. With the whole dust thing, the way I see it is that most things are going to be dusty in the room. I mean, he doesn't use his mask bench, for example, that often- he keeps the ones he uses regularly in his lair. The fluff will return! Never fear! Just for my readers:) Pff, you know I'm lying. It's mainly for me. **

**AceGray: Thanks for the review! And how frustrating is the end to Gone with the Wind? I mean, I know it makes sense in terms of the story direction and Scarlett's character, but… grrr! **

**Busanda: Well alright then, since I have a large stock of hairy mules, you may have this extra hairy one. Its name is Raoul. It's also blonde. Thanks very much for reviewing, it really makes the effort worth it, and feedback is great in terms of improving the story. Keep reading, and I hope you keep feeling compelled to review. :) **

**Thanks guys! If you've got a bit of spare time, make sure you watch the movie Mystic River with Sean Penn, directed by Clint Eastwood. It's insanely awesome. **

**-Froody**


	17. Interview

**A/N: My lengthiest chapter so far, I think. All for Chibi Binasu-chan. :) And yes, I am proud. Enjoy your reading, for this took quite a while to write, and try to respond kindly to the humour. **

**Voila:

* * *

**

Meg bustled busily back and forth between the dresser and the wardrobe in Christine's dressing room. Christine moaned silently from between her fingers as she sat slumped at her dresser. It had taken all of Meg's cajoling to lift Christine from her warm, safe bed, and the drowsy trip to her dressing room had done nothing to dispel the gathering headache beginning to reawaken with her nerves.

At last Meg paused breathlessly beside the motionless Christine, her arms full of bundles of coloured cloth, the bustles and bows poking brashly outwards.

"There!" she said cheerfully, dumping her load beside Christine's head. "Now all we have to do is to choose between these six dresses!"

Christine wearily lifted her head and examined the proffered specimens. She blinked her eyes a couple of times, sifting her way through the enormous pile of cloth, frowning a little. They all seemed to be exactly the same style, just in varying shades of lilac. She blinked again, and turned to gaze questioningly at Meg.

Meg placed her hands on her hips and gave a placating smile. "_Maman_ always says that pastels are soothing."

When no response came from the unimpressed Christine, Meg rolled her eyes in amused mock exasperation. "I like lilac! And it suits your gorgeous pale skin."

Meg stepped closer to Christine, and grabbed her chin, forcibly turning her reluctant gaze to her reflection. Speaking into the mirror, Meg placed her other hand gently on Christine's shoulder, giving a little squeeze.

'Christine… you know that you must make every effort with your appearance for this meeting. Not only do you need to appear genuinely sweet and innocent, but, well... you must remember that, in the end, what they are is- _men_."

Christine gasped, a smile upsetting her severe and shocked act, her eyes darting to her friend's reflection. There was no true surprise in such a statement from Meg, but still- certain remarks required certain amounts of feigned disapproval.

"Why, Meg," she began, her eyes dancing as she matched her friend's dimpled grin, "Whatever would your mother say, should she hear you speak of such things!"

Meg clapped both her hands loudly on each of Christine's shoulders. "Why else would I have been told to help you prepare for the meeting had _Maman_ not thought of those 'such things' herself?"

Both girls collapsed into helpless giggles as they contemplated that truly delicious idea of the strict Madame Giry lecturing the importance of feminine charms to her ballet class. Soon, however, Christine began to slowly sink back onto her palms, unable to steal her mind away from her upcoming meeting for long.

"What time is it, anyway?" Meg muttered vaguely as she searched along the back wall of the room for a clock. Christine looked up tiredly from the dresser's hard wooden surface and directed her gaze to the small clock sitting right in front of her mirror, and started violently.

"_Mon Dieu_!" she screeched with panic. "I have ten minutes!"

* * *

She grabbed the topmost dress from the pile, knocking the others unceremoniously to the floor in the process, and flung it into Meg's startled arms. Tugging her nightgown feverishly over her head, she glanced up only when Meg's calm hand touched her arm.

"Just let me shut the door."

Eating breakfast would have definitely been a plan worth looking into, Christine decided with a touch of irritation as her stomach growled angrily into the silence of the corridor. The moment she had burst from within her dressing room, thankfully fully clothed (though Meg had been forced to kindly guide Christine in the direction of her hairbrush) Madame Giry had taken her by the arm, and hurried her along to the corridor outside the managers' office.

How she had known that the meeting was to take place in this place Christine didn't know; but the most pressing thing on her mind at the moment was how to secure herself a piece of toast without actually leaving her current position.

Christine felt Madame Giry's glare even as the sound of her stomach died away. She glanced down; the woman didn't say a word in reproach, but her silence only expressed her disapproval more clearly. Madame Giry did not believe in showing any sign of weakness, even if one was not strictly in control of the offending body part's actions.

Christine's gaze floated to the sign adorning the managers' office in elaborate gold-plated lettering, pompously spelling out each man's name. She sighed silently, unwilling to risk attracting further disapproval from the strict woman sitting with wooden posture immediately beside her. Why would the managers need to attend this meeting between her and the Inspector? Did they feel compelled to pry and poke into every single matter occurring in their Opera House?

Christine forgot her irritation as soon as a sound alerted her out of her uneasy waiting. She sat up straight, her back at the same angle as Madame Giry's as the doorknob slowly turned. The door swang open.

The Inspector's smiling face appeared in the doorway, his bright teeth detracting attention from his bland tweed suit, his polished black shoes, or, indeed, any part of his person below his thick neck.

"Mesdames," he said pleasantly, beckoning them forward with a lazy hand. "Come in!"

He did not appear surprised in the slightest that Madame Giry was accompanying Christine.

Madame Giry stood up and strolled through the doorway without saying a word, and Christine hurriedly followed, averting her eyes so as to avoid eye contact with the smiling Inspector. Madame Giry did not sit in either of the two empty seats in the office, but Christine hurried immediately to sit down. She rather believed that unsteady knees would be slightly more obvious to her interviewers than any uncourteous action on her behalf.

"So," the Inspector said easily, breaking the momentary quiet. Christine looked up to find many eyes suddenly directed upon her, and sat up a little straighter. The Messieurs Firmin and Andre were both gazing at her with slightly more interest than possibly necessary; in fact, the word 'leering' almost sprang to mind. Christine, feeling slightly less than comfortable, slid her eyes from the two men and tried to focus on the Inspector. Whilst redirecting her gaze, however, she caught sight of yet another man sitting away from the others, propped up with a sheaf of papers and a pen at the ready.

"Ah, you've noticed my partner!" the Inspector said brightly, walking around to the desk where the man was sitting, and sliding an arm around his shoulders. "This is my partner, Monsieur Manesse. He will be taking notes of what we are saying."

It was hard to miss the Inspector's true intention when he placed such obvious, wry emphasis on the word 'we'. A sliver of cold dread coursed through Christine's veins, and she shivered almost invisibly.

The Inspector's eyes caught her unease.

"Now then," he said abruptly, his tone changing entirely, almost forcibly bright and cheerful. He was not a bad man, Christine realised reluctantly. He felt bad for making her nervous, and was trying to distract her. She eased into a slightly more relaxed position, and attempted to soften the tight lines her lips were making.

"Mademoiselle, I believe you are aware of what you are here to discuss."

His words were soft, but pointed. It was not a question. From behind him came the faint scratching of a pen. Christine swallowed inaudibly, and nodded.

"I believe you came to this Opera House when you were quite young, and have since remained in the care of our excellent Madame Giry?"

"Yes," Christine began, but was cut off by the brisk tones of the Madame herself.

"If what you want is the girl's history, Monsieur Inspector, you would do well to ask me for an account."

The Inspector smiled from behind his moustache, and nodded at the frosty woman. "Thank you for your offer, Madame, but I was merely after a simple response from the girl."

Madame Giry said nothing, but Christine could sense her lips tightening.

'Moving along then," the Inspector said briskly, directing his gaze back to Christine. "Now, during these years that you have been living in the Opera House, how often would you say does the Opera Ghost make his presence known to you?"

Such an abrupt question first opened then closed Christine's mouth, and she looked helplessly towards Madame Giry. The woman was staring icily at the Inspector, and didn't seem to notice, so Christine choked out a hurried, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

It appeared that the Inspector was about to speak when suddenly an interruption from Madame Giry caused him to pause, and swing about graciously on his toes to look to the woman as she spoke.

"Would this Opera Ghost you have asked about be that dark, mysterious figure so central a part of idle backstage gossip?"

The Inspector looked vaguely surprised at the seemingly innocuous question, and nodded affirmation. Madame Giry looked pleased- meaning her eyes narrowed in a slightly different way to normal- and nodded back, before continuing.

"This so-called 'Phantom of the Opera', scapegoat for every bad occurrence in the Opera House, from the murder of a drunken stagehand to the untimely storm ruining the annual picnic?"

The Inspector frowned, and held up a finger in a futile attempt to rebuke Madame Giry-

"-This black sheep of the ballet rats, the masked gargoyle who dons a cloak and a hat, accompanied by the stench of death, who lacks a nose and may or may not be able to kill a man with his very visage, depending on whom you ask?"

Madame Giry folded her arms with satisfaction, a very final air freezing the next rebuttal that the speechless Inspector had attempted to make.

There was an uneasy silence while the Inspector tried to regroup his strategy until Monsieur Andre broke in.

"Would you like the woman removed now?" he asked, with an almost luxurious air of malicious enjoyment. His moustache positively bristled in self-satisfaction. In an odd moment of understanding, Christine and the Inspector exchanged a bemused glance, before they apparently both remembered themselves and averted their eyes.

Monsieur Andre stood there, waiting to be answered, pomposity seeming to shield him from Madame Giry's positively blazing glare. It was the Inspector who finally defended her (though she hardly needed it) and waved his hand dismissively towards the man.

"Let her stay," he said lightly. Monsieur Andre did not look amused, and stepped back into a less prominent position of the room to mutter ominously with a similarly disenchanted Monsieur Firmin.

Christine was slightly confused by the Inspector's lenience towards her outspoken guardian. Was he merely humouring her? Surely not, or Madame Giry would certainly not look so satisfied.

"Moving along - and I would ask you to abstain from making further remarks for a while - back to you, Christine. Would you please answer my previous question?"

There was nothing else for it, Christine realised now. Here at last was a situation where her stagecraft was actually required out of the theatre (in a manner of speaking.) She would have to lie, and lie convincingly. She cleared her throat and tried to smile shyly at the waiting Inspector.

"You are confusing me a little, Monsieur Inspector. I have heard of this Opera Ghost, yes, but all the stories I have heard say that he never visits anyone regularly."

The Inspector seemed to be a little thrown at this sudden display of acquiescence, even if it was all useless. He stared at Christine a little harder, and a small frown appeared on his brow. He paused for a minute before replying.

"I too have heard stories of the Phantom, Mademoiselle. But I have also heard stories concerning a different variety of ghost, and your name was mentioned quite definitely when discussing a certain Angel of Music."

Christine held back the gasp, but it was difficult, and her throat hurt as she restrained herself. She knew it must be obvious to all in the room, though. He knew! How could she have been so naïve, to speak of her Angel in the open, to Meg, of course, but anyone could have heard! And they must have. And there must have been stories before her foolish admission; the other girls must have wondered where she spent all those hours away from the dormitory!

She wondered who it was; which of the ballet rats was the rat on this occasion? Certainly not Meg.

The room was still waiting for her answer to that caged remark. She sat up straighter.

"If I ever discussed an Angel of Music," Christine began coolly, "it had nothing to do with the Opera Ghost."

And was this a lie?

"My Angel of Music is my father's spirit, an endearment I made up in my childhood after his death. There is nothing mysterious, or murderous, about that."

The managers coughed discreetly into their fists, uncomfortable around this suddenly emotional interview. And it was emotional, and Christine painstakingly avoided Madame Giry's gaze as she furiously blinked back angry tears. She needn't have bothered, however; Madame Giry's calming hand soon found her arm, and there was no reprimand in her soft touch.

"Your Angel, as you'd like to call it," said the Inspector, his cynical tone seeming to dismiss her previous heartfelt words, "he sang you songs, isn't that right?"

This dangerous question brought a new onset of nerves to Christine.

The Inspector paced leisurely in front of the two women. "Excuse me if I'm much mistaken, but if this Angel was purely the imagination of a young girl faced by considerable tragedy, shouldn't voices heard beyond the walls be noted as some kind of religious miracle?"

Christine looked down, a battle being fought within her, between her nerves and a growing sense of hatred for this smug, smirking man. How could he laugh at what she had believed for all those years? He thought she was stupid for making up such ridiculous lies, but she had believed those lies since she was a child! So it wasn't true! It wasn't technically her father's spirit singing back to her through the walls of her small chapel. But it had been true to her.

"Drawing to the most logical conclusion," the Inspector continued, an amused smile pulling at his moustache, "someone is not stating the whole truth here."

Unable to sit there and be belittled any longer, Christine stormed past the Inspector, who appeared too surprised to attempt to stop her, and straight out the door. The door would have slammed had Madame Giry not adroitly stepped past it after her, catching it with a strong hand.

* * *

**A/N: Alas, no Erik in this chapter. Well, not in person. So to speak. But he will doubtless appear in the next chapter, so never fear. Prepare for a little more angst on E/C's behalf- I noticed recently that although I've covered the whole 'murder' aspect of their relationship, there's really been no mention of the _before_ betrayal. If you know what I mean. **

…

**I'll assume you do.**

**Anyway:**

**Nini-sky: Vous etes francais? Je parle un peu de francais, a l'ecole, mais je ne suis pas tres bien. :) Ton anglais est vraiment bon! Anyway, thanks for reviewing! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story. :)**

**Shorty: Thanks very much! That's such a compliment. And thank you very much for reminding me about the importance of characterisation- though you must understand that Erik is very difficult to write (well) because if you're basing your character on the phantom from the musical, he has about eight spoken lines in the whole thing. You have to just get a feel for it. **

**Splendorous Night Unfurled: Thank you very much! Nice to see a new reviewer, too. :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

**Mominator: I reckon they sent Christine away because they still see her as a child, and completely unable to hear anything remotely dangerous, or scary. If that's an adequate answer at all. **

**UndermyAngelofMusic'swings: Filler of a chapter… yeah, you're right. My love for detail is quite hopeless, eh:) So you're doing methods too? Are you in yr 12 or 11? **

**Thanks very much to the rest of my wonderful reviewers, over and out till next time!**

**-Froody**


	18. Rooftop

"Christine, ma chérie-"

Madame Giry's voice faded considerably as Christine tore around the corner of the corridor, anger having been (mostly) replaced by an urgent anxiety to just escape from any more questions. She raced through empty hallways, her skirts billowing ridiculously around her ankles. Ignoring propriety in favour of practicality, Christine gathered her skirts and pulled them up so that the lacy ends brushed at her bare calves.

Up the corridor, through the door, up the staircase, down the hall… she was headed for a very particular destination, though she had not yet realised where her feet were hurriedly taking her. Several staircases later, upon bursting through one final, creaking door, she found herself ankle deep in an icy drift of snow.

Christine had come back to the rooftop of the Opera House, just as breathless as she had arrived the first time, though she was minus a companion (and a cloak). She stood there for a minute, breathing heavily, inhaling the quiet peace of the deserted area. Soon she was shivering, however, and hastily dropped her skirts back around her ankles, sidestepping to a shallower patch of snow. She gazed around the rooftop for a moment, almost expecting to find Raoul out here waiting for her. Or her other, more mysterious companion of late.

But the rooftop was empty.

Christine slowly made her way to the same statue she had rested against on her previous visit, the one so conveniently opposite that imposing statue of Apollo's Lyre. She slumped against its base, ignoring the damp chill that spread through her skirts, heavy as they were, and reached her legs.

She gazed at the statue of Apollo's Lyre, her eyes squinted; the sun was a further insult to her despondent reflections, its glaring rays bouncing off the slick snow and into her eyes.

He was not even here for her now.

Her Angel had always been there for her when she was sad. She would sit in her small chapel, surrounded by candles and icons, praying for her father's spirit. She would begin to cry, miserable, a small, unhappy, lonely child, aching for her father. Her Angel would appear, embodied in an unearthly, beautiful voice that seemed to come from all of her icons at once.

She would be comforted by this voice every time she needed a companion. Every time she cried.

The silence of the rooftop began to become more depressing than peaceful after a while, and Christine began to quietly cry, her tears shining in the cold morning sunlight as they leaked down her cheeks, forming painful, icy trails. She imagined that as her teardrops fell to the ground they turned to pellets of ice, striking the snow-coated rooftop, shattering into millions of icy shards.

She thought of this, and avoided looking at the empty statue before her.

Nobody would have understood the sense of desolation Christine felt at this moment. Or so she thought, in her current position of misery, nerves torn to fragments by everything that had happened to her in the last few days. The tension had built too high and the bubble had burst.

But of course she was not alone in her feeling of despondent loneliness. And Christine knew it, beneath her tired tears. And so she was not too startled when a cloak was suddenly swept around her shoulders, brushing her hair roughly to the side.

He had not been behind the statue. To be so predictable was surely to lack mystery, and Erik thrived on it. Christine gave a weak little smile despite herself, feeling a quiet, surprising relief as she began to turn to face her companion. But when she turned, she immediately knew that something was wrong about her situation. Erik wore black shoes…

Her eyes snapped up, and her breath snatched in her chest as she met the familiar blue eyes of Raoul.

Raoul nodded wordlessly to Christine, releasing his firm grasp around the edge of the heavy fur coat he had placed about her shoulders and taking a step back. There was something different about the man before her, Christine thought through her brief shock, her eyes beginning to narrow as she examined him more closely. There was an air about him. Something that hadn't been there before…

"Christine," he said softly, an unfamiliarly formal manner clipping his tone.

She nodded blankly back at him, then remembered herself, and placed a wary, but warm smile on her face. She began to rise from her position, shrugging the cloak more securely around her shoulders, then turned quickly away as she remembered her tears, and rubbed her cheeks dry, hoping no ruddiness would remain to give her away so obviously. Turning back, she grasped Raoul's unmoving arm lightly, attempting to show her remaining friendship.

He did not respond to her friendly gesture, merely nodding again, as if acknowledging her efforts.

Christine glanced down, her shot nerves giving her no support as she waveringly attempted to maintain her cheerful disposition. What on earth was going on? Why was Raoul here?

"It's been…" she began, but stopped short, confused. It had not been so long since their abrupt parting of ways. She had not expected to see her old friend for a long time. Surely a man's pride took a longer time to heal?

Raoul shifted his feet, looking down at the icy ground, obviously as uncomfortable as Christine felt, and rude enough to show it. Christine did not blame him for this- though she did take the opportunity to covertly examine her recently estranged friend.

She almost smiled as she noted that his hair was as perfectly groomed as ever; it had always irritated her as a child, how Raoul's hair always seemed nicer than hers. Her father had laughingly commented, from time to time, how she had inherited much from her Swedish parents, but none of their Scandinavian genes.

Raoul's attire was perhaps a little more formal than she had come to expect, matching his new manner towards her to a tee; but his scuffed brown shoes were the same, a detail which comforted Christine in a way.

No; it was not his appearance that was so disconcerting to Christine, and as he finally looked up from his shoes, she realised what it was. His smile was gone, and his eyes were cold towards her.

"How are you, Christine?"

She shook her head a little to display her indecision on the matter, then hurriedly choked out a quick answer, defying her previous action.

"I'm well, thank you."

Christine felt she could no longer respond to him so warmly, as a friend; he was so cold! Try as she may, it appeared that she would only create further awkward tension between them if she tried to break the ice.

"And you?" she replied formally, lapsing into the polite, required responses that were dictated for acquaintances. Christine was simply too tired, too frazzled, to think of anything better to say.

It was this coldness that appeared to reach Raoul, as his coldness had reached Christine. His formal manner seemed to evaporate as he pressed his hands into his face, leaning forward a little as if his back had begun to ache. Christine said nothing, at a loss for words, as he began to speak to her through his fingers.

"Christine," he began, a raw note of some emotion breaking through his voice. "It has been days Christine. I have not spoken to you for days."

Something clicked in the back of Christine's mind, as an odd thought, seeming not to belong in such a situation, leapt to the tip of her tongue.

"Have not spoken to me…?" she said softly, querulously. She risked a small glance at Raoul's suddenly neutral face, and let herself voice her suspicions. "But you have seen me?" she continued, taking his refusal to look into her eyes as grounds for further questioning. "Have you been watching me, Raoul? Was that… was that you who grabbed me in that room the other day?"

Raoul kicked at a small drift of snow, obviously extremely discomforted at what Christine was implying. But he did not oppose her suggestions.

"Why did you not ask to see me, Raoul? Why did you frighten me like that? You got me into a lot of trouble with your little game!"

Raoul shook his head violently, muttering what sounded a lot like, "Trouble you got yourself into," to a heated Christine.

"How dare-" she began, having finally settled on an emotion, something suiting her unexpected, bizarre situation. But Raoul interrupted her outburst, confusing her emotionally once more.

"I couldn't avoid it, Christine. It was the only way… the only was to see you… to touch you."

Christine didn't know what to say. She burrowed her head into the warm fur resting on her shoulders, lifting the cloak up around her ears, avoiding looking towards Raoul.

"I miss you," he choked quietly, before turning away from her, swinging himself around to face outwards, towards the gently chilling breeze. "I love you," he said to his wide view of Paris, loudly and roughly, his hands gripping his sides tightly. Raoul stepped quietly back to face the silent Christine, the coldness in his blue eyes gone, and replaced with the most miserable, pain-filled azure imaginable.

"I… I love you." he repeated, his confidence seemingly gone as he faced her, his entire body rigid, waiting for some form of reply, any, from the unmoving, unspeaking Christine.

She could not ignore his words. She could not ignore them, as she had not been able to ignore them the first time he had said such things to her on this roof, only days beforehand. But it had not been so painful to try to ignore them this time.

Blue eyes searching her reluctant brown ones, Raoul ran his hands uneasily through his hair, speaking again to fill the silence. "I know what you told me, only days ago. But that was such an emotionally charged night! There had been a murder; you had undergone immense stress; I didn't listen to you properly, and I'll be the first to admit it! But, now Christine! Now it is the cold, bright morning! We have both had sufficient time to consider our actions. I know you must have thought our hasty conversation over. You must have reconsidered what you told me. You must have."

Christine could barely hear his words, knowing only what his pleading, miserable tone meant. Raoul still did not believe that she could love the Phantom of the Opera. He was still hurting, and had made it her duty to break him again. Tears rushed back to her eyes as she lifted her head from its bowed position, and stepped towards her imploring companion.

"Raoul," she started, tears muffling her words. "I said it last time, and you're making me say it again, though we both know how it must hurt you, my oldest friend! I love another- I love _him_, even in the harsh reality of daylight. I love him as you love me, and I do not love you as more than a friend."

She choked a little, even more completely miserable than before at the stricken look on her friend's face, painful little gasps of air shaking her body as Raoul left the roof as that time before, trying desperately to hide his tears. Christine tried no such pretence, and collapsed back to the ground as soon as she heard the door click shut.

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**A/N: Yes, yes, I know I brought him back… but everyone who had been telling me I hadn't resolved Raoul's part properly made sense. And we all know for sure now who Christine has chosen. After all, she did make her decision amidst incredibly emotional circumstances- in my story and in the original story. There will be no more Raoul after this- or, at least, not him in person.**

**Erik will join us once more in the next chapter! Yes, you've been left waiting for quite a while. About the loooong gap between chapters: I'm sorry, but I've just been so busy in the last while that it's been impossible to do anything. Hopefully there'll be a much shorter interval before you get the next chapter.**

**Just as a sidenote, a couple of people asked about how they knew about Christine's Angel of Music; well, the way I see it, Buquet definitely heard Christine telling Meg the story, and Buquet doesn't keep his mouth shut about anything! He's the gossip queen (king) of the backstage crew. That is my explanation.**

**Now I'll try and reply to a couple of questions- but thanks to everyone who reviews, it's really great for me to know what people think of how the story's progressing.**

**PhantomFan07: Okay, so you didn't ask a question, but I had to thank you for the nice reviews you've been constantly giving me! Lol, even just now I go to my inbox and there it is, a gorgeous little complimentary review of First Kiss for Two. Thanks so much! Hope you keep enjoying!**

**Under-my-Angel-of-Music's-wings: Yay, you're a real, actual review! Well done. You've progressed to the next level; that of actually being able to be clicked on and linked to a page. I dunno. I think that's cool. :) I'm glad you liked the part I included about Christine and her real/imaginary angel- but it had to come up some time. I mean, the past can't just be left behind. There is ever more angst to write.**

**Nini-sky: No, no, you don't hate the inspector. I mean, he seems like a scumbag (am I allowed to write this?) from the interview and stuff, but really, it's just his job, and Christine's story would sound a little… odd to anyone on the outside. Lol, I dunno, I like the guy… he's like Madame Giry, he's fun to write. Oh! And about the drawings of my story- wow! That would seriously be the best compliment anyone could give the story! I would be amazingly delighted if you drew parts of it! As long as you sent me the links. ;)**

**Mominator: Good! You understand the inspector! Of course it seems a little evil to us readers, who know Christine's full story inside and out (and love the romanticism), but to anyone else, it would sound completely insane. And as for the French grammar… I say, who knows, Mesdames or Madame and mademoiselle- I think I just couldn't be bothered typing them both out! But thanks for the constructive criticism!**

**Thanks guys! Hope you enjoyed this one- you'll hopefully be scrolling through the next one soon.**

**-Froody**


	19. Two

**A/N: Welcome to a long overdue chapter of my story. Please enjoy the fluff as the delicately unravelling plot brings you tears, joy and many other emotions. I hope that you can understand when I say that although I would much prefer to write this story than do my maths, my future does not depend on the reviews I receive for this story (though they're certainly very important to me.) In other words, I will not be updating this story very regularly for a couple of weeks, and I hope you can bear with me as I struggle through this testing period of… well… tests. :) **

**Enjoy.

* * *

**

It was with far less stealth than was normal that Erik strode through the snow towards Christine. She could clearly hear the end of his long cloak brushing against the flurries of snow his careless shoes created. She did not look up to greet him, or budge from her collapsed position on the hard, cold ground. It was all she could do to keep from relapsing into tears as she felt him draw nearer.

"What happened?" Erik asked shortly, drawing breaths raggedly. Christine kept her gaze on the floor, her own heartbeat having momentarily stopped. Was he angry with her for speaking to Raoul?

After a few breathless seconds, she processed the barely hidden concern resting behind Erik's sharp question, and a feeling of enormous relief flooded her. This warm feeling was hardly marred by the fact that she was left to remember the possibly worse situation she had escaped before her unexpected meeting with Raoul.

"What happened?" she responded weakly, feeling a little dazed. Why did everything always seem to happen at once?

As Christine felt a strong hand being placed under her arm, she attempted to swat it gently away.

"Why are you sitting on a snow drift in the freezing cold, Christine?" Erik asked wearily, resisting her pitiful protestations, and lifting her gently to her feet, facing towards him. "Why have you been crying?"

Christine smiled a little, and tried to wipe her eyes covertly, but gave up as her eyes began to sting with her hasty rubbing. Instead, she raised her head and looked seriously into Erik's penetrating gaze.

"It's not really so simple, Erik," she said quietly.

"Is anything?" he quickly responded, sardonic wit very quickly in place as his old shield.

"Well," Christine began, slightly more sharply, a little irritated by this unhelpful display of callousness, "I left the meeting as soon as the Inspector accused me of… accused me of…" she stopped, confused as to what she had been accused of lying about. "He- he didn't believe what I said about my- about my Angel of Music."

She felt ridiculous as the words left her mouth, and she snapped her eyes down to her feet. How could she speak to this man about one of his other identities when he was now so obviously as human as herself? And how could she explain, to anyone, to him, to the Inspector, to Madame Giry, Meg or herself, how immensely important her Angel had been to her over the years? Her faith had never wavered. And now, at sixteen years old, having known the truth for merely weeks, she had just been accused of harbouring a ridiculous lie, and she just felt…

She felt the smooth, black material of Erik's glove against her palm as he almost tentatively took her hand in his. She turned her head to the side before furiously blinking tears out of her eyes, trying to avoid splashing him and his immaculate outfit. But she didn't protest at all as he swept her strongly into the reassuring circle of his arms, so warm against the coldness, of winter, of her doubts and fears and shame.

Her nose tickled against the fine velvet of Erik's waistcoat, and she gave a sniffling giggle as she unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a sneeze.

"You do know that you have just defaced my favourite item of clothing," Erik said reproachfully, pulling Christine tighter against him, rubbing her back in a studied fashion. "Tell me of that which seems to have driven you to this weeping wreck up here on the roof."

Christine pulled back a little and gazed at Erik with some surprise. "Now, why would you suspect that there must be something else?"

"You mean, apart from collapsing into the trap of trying to interpret my many personas to another- an outsider of the Opera House, no less?"

Christine nodded mutely.

"My dear Christine- I thought we had overcome that difficulty quite some time ago. I thought that the shock of realising exactly who I am, and have been for all these years, had finally died down a little."

Christine shook her head in disbelief as she listened to Erik's much too simplistic interpretation of her thoughts, but she somehow managed to overlook her irritation as his hands continued rubbing her back so soothingly.

Seeming to ignore Christine's indignant reaction to his words, Erik continued his explanation: "Now, I here assume that your tears are not those of guilt for having betrayed me to the Inspector, so I can draw to only one other conclusion. And just what did our precious Viscomte want with you on this occasion?"

Christine gasped, pulling herself from Erik's hold, mouth hanging open with surprise. How on earth…

"How did you- Why would you just assume that it was Raoul who upset me?" she demanded breathlessly, staring at Erik as he allowed himself a small smirk.

"Who else, Christine? Your life is not so complicated and difficult as one might think, _ma chérie_, especially one as naïve as, I'm afraid, you are."

Christine crossed her arms across her chest indignantly, trying to build up a semblance of anger, but failed miserably as a smile crept unwillingly onto her face.

"How dare you presume to underestimate the complexity of my life, Monsieur le Phantom," she said huffily, tapping her shoe against the powdery snow in a mockery of righteous anger.

"So it was Raoul," Erik mused, gazing thoughtfully off the edge of the building and into the cold horizon, lined with grey clouds.

"And right you know it," Christine remarked wryly. "You saw him as he made his very visible exit, didn't you?"

Erik smiled his consent, turning his eyes back to focus on the smiling Christine. "I may have caught a glimpse of a certain someone as he slammed certain doors in his rush to leave the building."

It was with a sigh that the smile drooped off of Christine's face, and she sat down rather heavily on the raised platform of a nearby statue. "Oh dear," she said quietly, and felt the despondent misery slowly ease back in. "He must hate me now," she said suddenly, looking back up to Erik's stiffly inert form. "He was begging me," she murmured, unable to meet her silent companion's eyes.

Erik made no move so rash as to settle himself next to Christine on the cold and wet stone, but stepped a little closer to her slumped form, and sighed himself.

"I can well understand the man's desperation," Erik said slowly, quietly, almost to himself. Christine glanced back at him uneasily as he stared resolutely away from her. "I pity him. And I think no less of him."

Christine pulled back her shoulders and stuck her chin out. "I regard him as highly as I do any man!" she said strongly, slightly miffed by Erik's insinuations. "I think of him as better than most," she continued, gaining confidence (and indignation) as she continued. "In fact, I have never had a friend so-"

"That is enough," Erik cut in, his jealousy evident. "I believe you. And before you try to explain, I believe that you have sent the Viscomte on his way after he so kindly decided to give you another chance. And you don't need to tell me why," he continued, as Christine opened her mouth to perhaps offer a more detailed explanation. "I feel I have quite enough self-esteem this morning to invent a reason myself. I also feel that you have had to explain yourself entirely too often for one day. For that reason, we shall make every effort to avoid our dear Madame as we go to my home for a much belated singing lesson."

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**A/N: There we are! Erik's back… with Christine… and they're currently headed for the privacy of our favourite lair.**

**By the way, can I just say that while I appreciate your fervent requests for longer, more regular updates, it's really annoying when the requests become a little… well, rude. I'm sure all of you guys are really busy people too, and can therefore understand that I have no time for myself at the moment. Just be patient. Bear with me. Enjoy the story as it comes.**

**This doesn't apply to all my reviewers, of course. A simple request for me to update ASAP doesn't irritate me at all- it simply provides encouragement for me to get my bum into gear sooner or later. :) **

**(And thanks very much to all my lovely reviewers.)**

**Sorry about the whining, guys… I really hope you enjoyed this chapter (with its tasty overtones of Erik. Mmmm…)**

**-Froody**


	20. Tears

**A/N: Oooh, oh, oh- it's a long one! The longest, I'm pretty sure. And yes, I know, it really had to be to make up for the- was it a MONTH?- of no updates. Sorry for that, but hopefully things will be more settled from now on. Anyway, onto a chapter that I am very proud of…**

**xxx**

Christine felt a pleasurable shiver of anticipation as she climbed carefully down the stairs after Erik, her shoes clacking loudly on the cold stone. Erik made no move to engage her in conversation, and so, safely led by the hand, she allowed her thoughts to wander.

How many times had she visited the Phantom's lair now? Whoever would have thought it possible? Christine had never dreamt of her angel living in such a place, an underground kingdom. When her daydreams had led her to such an excitingly forbidden topic, her curiosity ever awake, she had always pictured light, and simplicity, and- in fact, she had pictured a place very like the workroom she had discovered just recently- though rather less dusty. The sunlight honeying the dull surfaces, the quiet flowers on the bench- those were the stuffs of her angel.

But no, it had never crossed her mind that her angel could inhabit such a cold, damp, echoing cavern, whispers from the tremendous organ perfuming every chilly corner with melancholy. And to think that she would one day enter the place, as forbidden to her as St Peter's gates to mere mortals- why, it was simply miraculous!

Christine squeezed the hand grasping her fingers as tightly as she could, as if checking the reality of her situation. Erik glanced back with a frown, then retracted his gaze once it was clear that nothing needed to be said.

It would be just like her to create such a wild fantasy, and somehow have dreamed all these years in her head, nestled on one of the lumpy pillows supplied to training dancers at the Opera House. Any moment now a nine-year-old Christine could suddenly awaken, Meg's irritatingly cheery smile before her eyes: late for breakfast again, Christine! _Maman_ will be angry if you miss another meal! I'm up, I'm up… head falls to the pillow, and off to another dream, another fantasy world. What would her angel be this time?

The Phantom of the Opera?

She used to create scenarios in her head during those first lonely years at the Opera Populaire. Kneeling on the stony floor of the ever-deserted chapel, tears falling as the wax from the surrounding candles, her prayers would somewhere deviate and become wishes, or dreams, or fantasies- any kind of other world she could escape into, and forget for a while. Forget the sorrow and loss that isolated her from the other girls.

Bitter tears stung Christine's eyes as she stepped down step after endless step. Yes, that was her world for years after her father died. An endless attempt to escape to another world.

No; right here, right now, this could not be a dream. That ended years ago. The time had finally come when the pain had eased to a dull, manageable ache. The sense of loss remained, but the loneliness evaporated, and hope returned. After time, when the bodiless, comforting voice from beyond the chapel had convinced Christine that her father's spirit lived on, she had achieved a kind of peace. And the voice itself, the beautiful, melancholy voice of her angel brought a harmony into her life.

Christine, vision softly blurred with tears, took another distracted step forward, lost in memory, and only came to upon walking solidly into a waiting Erik. She flushed even as she surreptitiously wiped at the corner of her eye, avoiding Erik's face and gazing around instead at their present location.

The familiar boat bobbed gently on the rippled surface of the black lake immediately behind Erik. Quite bemused by the time which had seemingly escaped her, Christine turned slightly and peered back through the darkness; yes, indeed, they must have reached the bottom of the stairs without her noticing.

"I hadn't realised-" Christine began, her voice of a rather higher pitch than normal, but stopped when Erik's hand cupped her face, and pulled her eyes reluctantly to his.

"You are upset, my angel," he said softly, stroking a silkily-clad thumb up and down the gentle contour of her damp cheek. Christine bowed her head in acquiescence, sniffing quietly as she did so. Erik sighed, and wrapped his arms around her trembling form. Christine rested her head on his comfortingly firm chest and silently shook as the tears trickled down her face from her tightly clenched eyes.

"Do not try to hide your tears from me. I know when you cry, Christine," Erik murmured softly into her hair; but there was more than a little bitterness in his tone. "I have seen you cry for years."

Time blurred once more as the couple stood before the lake, tremors eventually leaving Christine leaning tiredly against Erik, his arms soothing her, relieving the tension in her chest.

Slowly, she raised her head and looked sadly into Erik's watching eyes, laying her hands flat on the fine material of his waistcoat. "I do not mean to always cry," she said softly, voice thick with hidden tears. "I really am happy… but everything seems to remind me-"

"You have had a trying day," Erik said gently. He pulled his arms slowly from around Christine's waist, trailing his fingers softly around until he reached her own white hands, pressing them more firmly against his chest, against his heart. For a moment he maintained this pressure, before suddenly releasing her completely, and stepping backwards.

Christine's heart beat quickly, and she shivered slightly as Erik's sudden withdrawal invited the chills of the lake to replace his warmth. Accepting the proffered hand, she stepped lightly into the boat, sitting before Erik as he began to ease the boat forward through the glassy water.

The two of them remained silent for their short journey, each engaged, it seemed to Christine, in their own thoughts.

**xxx**

Christine felt she had never worked her diaphragm so hard, such was the tension in her muscles after the first hour of her lesson. Standing behind Erik as he sat at the organ, watching him stroke the keys into melody, she vaguely wondered whether it was all the crying that had caused such an ache, or a lack of practise.

Perhaps it was the high register of the piece; the current manuscript upon the organ's stand displayed great black dots soaring far beyond the middle octave- even a high E flat! She could almost have smiled if her muscles hadn't been aching quite so much. Erik always loved to test her range, especially after any lengthy break in lessons. He seemed to find some deep satisfaction in reminding her of the enormous importance of practise.

"Your breathing control has suffered from a lack of practise," Erik said, the disappointed tones truly belonging to a teacher breaking into her thoughts, and making her smile wryly. "You must focus! This piece requires a high level of concentration."

Erik pounded on the keys of the organ with his left hand as if to prove his point, then added the other hand and began the introduction without removing his disapproving eyes from Christine.

"Push the air through! Relax, breathe in, now raise your larynx!"

Christine closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the instructions, familiar though they were. When she hit her first note with nary a waver and continued along the bar smoothly, she suddenly remembered her passion for the art.

As the final chords echoed strongly through the cavern, Erik finishing with a gratuitous flourish, Christine clapped her hands together with a smile, pleased with herself and still revelling in the fading sounds.

"Was the accompaniment so good?" Erik asked mockingly, smiling back at the happy Christine standing before him, tapping her own final notes into the air with two fingers, an elaborate and ridiculous mimic of the actual score.

"Oh, the accompaniment was nothing to be sniffed at," Christine teased with a grin, reaching forward and knocking Erik's hands from the keys as her nimble fingers tapped out her single piece of repertoire. "I think it needed a little more of this."

"Mozart's old lullaby?" Erik asked in mock derision. "I hardly believe that 'Twinkle twinkle' could replace the top-quality Italian I wrote based on my thirty word vocabulary."

Christine laughed; she could almost feel Erik flinching at such disrespect for his noble instrument, let alone his newest composition…

"I'll stop this torture," she said with a smile, and stood up straight, brushing her fingers loosely through her curls as she waited for her lesson to continue. But it seemed that Erik was done with teaching for the moment. He sat at the organ, gazing unabashedly at Christine as she stood there, eyes filled with some curious look, of distant warmth, and other, imperceptible emotions.

Christine stared back; there were so few opportunities to really study the man, such was the usual forbidding intensity of his eyes. But for the moment he appeared oddly distracted- and if he was allowed to examine her, however distantly, she would take the same opportunity.

A lined face, perhaps darker than one would expect for a man confined to darkness; a tired mouth slightly open; the white mask, ever present, the one feature of Erik's face that caused disquiet. And through the mask, far more important than the rest, the blue eyes, focussed on her own. Windows to the soul, or so Christine wished, for she found those pale eyes almost disconcertingly obscure, particularly now.

Was it longing she saw? Longing, or something deeper; or maybe something less stable, like numb disbelief.

Could nothing simply be enjoyed by the man?

Christine gazed harder, deeper, until she could no longer stand not knowing. The eyes hid more than the mask ever did. She turned around, breathing heavily, staring out at the stillness of the lake, frustration clenching her palms. Behind her she could hear Erik shaking his head, roused by her sudden movement.

Stiffening her nerves, she pivoted back around on her heel, and met Erik's mildly self-conscious gaze with defiance.

"Keep me here with you," she said suddenly, daringly, breaking the silence with some wild recklessness.

"I could, you know," Erik said softly, turning from his organ so that his body faced Christine. "I could have kept you here on many occasions, and never allowed you to escape. I could have taken you from your bed, or even from the chapel during your prayers, and you might never have seen daylight again."

He paused, unblinking, unembarrassed by his blunt words, the insinuations that he had considered such loathsome deeds.

Christine gazed back, frowning, her wide brown eyes displaying her lack of understanding. Why had he not done these things? The Phantom of the Opera must have had the power, never mind the will. He must have had some supreme faith that one day she would come to him, or even simply with him, of her own accord.

And faith had delivered.

"Our faith has worked wonders, hasn't it?" she said softly, nodding gently to Erik as he finally stirred, surprised at her insight.

"Mine has, my dear," he said without a smile, rising from the bench and stepping forward.

"Those years in the chapel," Christine said distantly, her attention wandering from her advancing companion as he moved closer. "I was there, alone- but not alone. You were there," she said, turning her gaze back to Erik. "You were there, watching over me, my angel, the guardian my faith delivered."

"You are the angel," Erik said quietly, and slowed his paces. Christine noted the look of almost reverent bewilderment that shadowed his face as he gazed upon her. "You are talking to me, here, now! Your faith was true, and pure, and you will still accept the lie that no God delivered in the position of your angel!"

Christine's chest almost cramped in sympathy and furious denial as she breathlessly shook her head, holding back tears. "There are no more lies here!" she cried heatedly, stamping her feet upon thin carpet, throwing her gaze aimlessly, irately, around the dark cavern sky, so far from the stars, and Heaven. "Do you think that I am stupid? Do you think I rely only on faith?"

She drove her glare back down to Erik, who had stopped moving forward, and stood slumped before her, some internal, eternal weariness hanging his head.

"I am no angel," he choked out listlessly, voice husky and full of pain. The tears in Christine's eyes matched his as she flew across the flew feet separating them, and she grabbed his trembling hands, holding them tightly to her face, silk gloves becoming rougher as tears streaked the smooth material.

When breath at last became less of an effort for Christine, and she felt strength enough to lift her eyelids, she dropped the weak hands, and moved her own to Erik's lined face.

"You were my angel to me for seven years, Erik. Do not presume to make those years even more of a lie to me. Do not deny who you are. Who you were. What you were to me."

Christine lowered her gaze, catching her breath, gathering courage. "What you are to me," she added softly.

Erik cursed softly under his breath, and pulled roughly away from a startled, hurt Christine. "And what am I to you, my dear? Surely not an angel still- or not of any sense but the name. The Opera Ghost, a murderer? Someone who- who requires your pity?"

The man clutched his face violently, beginning to pace around the narrow shore in agitation, hiding his eyes from a helpless Christine as he continued his impassioned rant.

"I am not a music teacher. I am a composer, and would be wasting my time and talents on the business! I merely- I merely gave you advice on posture, breathing and other useless techniques. I am not your father, as I believe we have already discussed- though I did attempt to fill his empty shoes for several years. I am not your- your-"

Here Erik's voice failed him, and he discontinued his speech, sliding his shaking hands around to cover his eyes, standing brokenly before Christine. She approached him tentatively, laying a hand on his quaking shoulder gently, then gathering him into a comforting embrace when he didn't protest.

"You are everything to me, Erik," Christine whispered softly against his wet cheek, rubbing her hands along the bowed man's shoulders, soothing, relaxing. "You are more than the angel I so depended on, you are a man. You taught me all I know about music. But it was more than that. When I sing-" she drew a quick and ragged breath- "  
when I sing, it is only my voice, but your spirit creates the beauty of the sound."

Erik mumbled something incomprehensible into her hair, and although she could not make out the words, Christine knew that it must have been something self-detrimental and likely to be quite untrue.

"Oh Erik," she sighed miserably, pulling the bowed head down against her shoulder. "Why can you never trust me?"

Again, something unidentifiable was murmured against Christine's shoulder. Irritated, she yanked his head out from its buried position and asked him to repeat himself.

Erik averted his gaze, looking slightly sheepish, and muttered something about "the coat, for a start."

"For Heaven's sake!" Christine cried, eyes flashing with sudden anger. "If Raoul's overcoat means so much to you-"

And with that she tore away from Erik, marched directly to the side of the lake and, after tearing off the fur coat, threw it as far over the water's surface as she could.

After a few moments, when Christine began to breathe at a slightly less furious pace, Erik walked up and stood beside her at the water's edge, gazing quite calmly upon the odd sight of the coat gradually sinking a few metres from shore.

When the last expensive fur-lined sleeve gave one final salute to the motionless couple on shore, before sinking to an untimely, unexpected end, the only sound that could be heard in the place was the heavy breathing of a relatively stunned Christine. She could not believe what she had just done. What childish measures needed to be resorted to?

Tears gathered at the edges of her vision once more, but before she could begin to properly weep, Christine suddenly felt an odd shaking from the man standing beside her. Bewildered, she turned to look at Erik, and was startled to find him with tears in his own eyes- tears of laughter!

Utterly confused, she stepped backwards and tripped on a rather inconvenient pile of manuscripts, landing painfully on her behind. She clapped a shaking hand over her mouth, completely mortified, pain now joining the mess of bewilderment, anger, frustration and growing irritation. Hearing the unmistakeable sound of what was unquestionably a snort, the tears fell at last, and Christine buried her head in her skirts as Erik laughed at her misery!

Such a humiliating incident was simply too much for any girl of sixteen to be able to bear, when performed solely for a man she was harbouring feelings for.

The next thing Christine knew, she was being pulled heavily into Erik's lap; it seemed the man had abandoned his mirth once she had started to cry. Erik cradled her gently, rocking her as tenderly as a mother would a baby, and eventually Christine transferred her head from her skirts to his steady shoulder.

Once her tears had dried, and she was beginning to relax, and positively enjoy this comforting closeness, Christine lifted her head and gazed openly into Erik's eyes.

"If it isn't one of us…" she started woefully, a small smile gathering upon her lips, and it pleased her to see a matching cheer lighten Erik's face.

"I must say, I have never seen a trained dancer act so disgracefully clumsily," Erik said teasingly, poking Christine playfully in the side. She squealed, batting away the offending finger, turning sideways into an inelegant kneeling position on Erik's lap to avoid any further attacks. As he slyly twinkled his fingers, moving them provocatively forward, Christine tensed completely, before grabbing Erik's hands in her own, removing the threat.

Erik smiled, and entwined his strong fingers with Christine's, gazing assertively into her eyes, and chuckled as the girl quickly blushed, turning her head away, a curtain of curls hiding her loss of composure. She turned back quickly enough, however; but her smile had disappeared somewhere along the way.

Boldly, she stared right back into Erik's calm blue gaze, feeling almost defiant. She no longer felt intimidated by the open intensity burning through the white mask.

The couple made an odd picture, sprawled awkwardly on the hard, stony shore, palm to palm, knuckles white with pressure, staring unashamedly into each others' eyes. Christine's blush remained, though she made no effort to hide it, and Erik had regained some of the confident power that had so entranced Christine upon their first meeting.

"Music of the night…" Christine whispered instinctively, without much thought, then broke the powerful connective gaze between the two as mortification suddenly returned, and she realised what she had said.

"Shh," Erik murmured softly, and released one aching hand, turning her face back to his with gentle fingers. Christine closed her eyes and tilted her head upwards as his lips descended, and he kissed her, softly at first, then more deeply. As they kissed, Christine blindly found Erik's loose hand with hers, and entwined their fingers once more, pressing closer towards his warm body, but still too far away…

And the release of the tension that had built throughout their entire, teary day was amazing, so completely immersing that Christine never knew how the couple ended flat against the stony floor, stiff limbs relieved as they were gratefully extended, Christine leaning more heavily into Erik than she perhaps should have.

Indeed, at a moment when she paused for breath, and suddenly realised their completely inappropriate position, she pulled back completely, rolling to the side, wincing slightly at the stinging of the pebbles into her knees. Erik was left lying there, looking more than a little ridiculous, mask knocked halfway off his face so that the look of sudden bewilderment was all the more entertaining. Breathing heavily, digging her nails into her palms, Christine watched as Erik finally rolled to his own knees, eyes full of puzzlement and frustration.

Tenderly, Christine reached over and took Erik's hands in her own, pulling him and herself to their feet. More comfortable with this less shocking arrangement, she leant her head heavily against his heaving chest, and stood there with him, a smile upon her face.

**xxx**

**A/N: Aaaaaaaaaawwww… Now wasn't that a gorgeous scene to come back to? I positively enjoyed writing this chapter- I am such a sucker for angsty, emotional scenes ending with kisses. :) Actually, you may have noticed that on previous occasions… I am not predictable! **

**(eep)**

**Thank goodness that long, awful, continuous period of no-time-for-any-kind-of-life seems to have quieted down for a while! Hopefully I'll now be able to begin updating around once a week again- yay! **

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Too over-the-top? Too emotional? Too much irritating lapses of tears and weeping and angst? Please tell, and let me know of my other many curious mistakes! (Not looking at anyone, Mominator… :))**

**Thanks to all my reviewers, especially for putting up with me and my lack of regular updating. **

**Chibi Binasu-chan: Aw honey, I forgive you. Lol, past and present cranky reviews, they're all reviews; I just got a little stressed last time. And about the school issue? Yes, actually, I'm still in school. In Australia we have our long holidays during summer- which is from December to February. Right now I'm in the busiest part of the school year, and I've never had to work so hard. Lol, we celebrate Christmas along with the rest of the world… during summer… in December. :) And do I seem like someone who needs summer school? (just kiddin') I love all reviews and all criticism, and I hope you enjoyed the length of this chappie.**

**And to the rest of my awesome gang of reviewers: for the record, I'm sorry about the anger last chapter, I'm really not upset at all by urging for quick updates- I do it myself:) I think I was having a bad day… so feel free to whip me into shape! **

**Hope you're hoopy, **

**-Froody **


	21. Pebbles

**A/N: Not too long since the last chapter, hmm? I'm pleased at any rate. :) Enjoy!**

**xxx**

Christine quietly entered the door to the stalls of the main theatre, wincing as the dull banging of the door echoed rudely in the silence around her. She stepped even more lightly after realising who was leading this meeting she had arrived late for. A few titters came from some of the chorus girls as Christine pushed her way gingerly through the narrow aisles, finally sitting with relief in a seat next to Meg.

Having left Erik's home rather quickly after the exciting end of the singing lesson, both feeling quite awkward after the sudden end to their romance, Christine had emerged at last from behind the mirror in her dressing room to find that the corridors around the practise hall and the dormitories were empty. A queasy feeling settling rather decidedly in the bottom of her stomach, she had wandered around the backstage area of the Opera House for some time before deciding to check the main theatre. It was not that bizarre, of course, for a combined meeting to occur, but since performances had been put on hold, nothing so official had taken place.

As Monsieur Firmin's drone drifted tediously through the theatre, and the disapproving eyes turned back to the stage, Christine collapsed back into the chair with a small sigh, and turned to a questioning Meg with a smile.

"Where in the world have you been?" Meg hissed, glaring at Christine with more than a little envy. "Do you know we've all already been here for an hour?"

"What a pity I missed the fun," Christine mused, giggling a little at the incensed expression on Meg's face. She glanced to the stage, looking past the dull figure of Monsieur Firmin to find the expected Monsieur Andre standing pompously to one side of his partner, and the also-expected- though rather unwelcome- figure of La Carlotta, dressed entirely in a startling shade of violet. A self-indulgent smirk was plastered on the woman's face; Carlotta had clearly recovered well from the mortification of her last performance.

"The diva has returned?" she asked dryly, amused by Meg's eye-rolling response.

"The managers have been talking extensively about the new, intensive rehearsal plans for _Il Muto_, now that we've lost a week of performances- but what this really is, of course, is an opportunity to retrieve some dignity for poor Carlotta from her peers."

Christine nodded knowingly, and settled comfortably into her seat, ignoring the manager as he emphasised the importance of watchfulness backstage, and of reporting any peculiarities to the management. Instead, her eyes drifted to the empty Box Five to the side of the stage. Could Erik be watching her even now? Or was he still sitting before his organ, hands full of pens, ink and manuscript paper, as he had been when Christine left?

How she wished she could watch him…

Several moments later, Christine suddenly became aware of movement around her as Meg tugged impatiently on her arm. The speech had finally ended, and the crowd of people in the stalls were intent on making the most of their short break before evening rehearsals began.

"Honestly, Christine," Meg muttered quietly as the pair made their slow exit, "Would you like me to stand up at the next meeting and announce to the world where your affections lie these days, or are you content to do it yourself by staring unblinkingly at the well-known abode of the Opera Ghost?"

Christine blushed; she hadn't realised how obvious her attention- or lack thereof- had been to others. "I wasn't-" she began weakly, feeling compelled to make some excuse for her indiscretion, but was thankfully interrupted by the sudden appearance of Madame Giry.

The two girls had just exited the large doors of the theatre, hindered to a very slow pace, but willingly broke from the crowd to join the beckoning Madame as she strode across the wide hall and up the sweeping staircase, before coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of a blank stretch of corridor. Christine and Meg stopped behind her, slightly bemused by their odd location.

"Girls," Madame Giry started, clapping her hands together decisively- and yet also uncharacteristically- and gazing intently from Meg to Christine. She stopped whatever she was planning to say at that, however, and switched her complete attention to a slightly self-conscious Christine. "I noticed your late entrance to the meeting, Christine," she said disapprovingly, rapping her fingers on the wall behind her in a way that evoked images of discipline and other unpleasant circumstances. She sighed, and dropped her gaze to the floor, seeming suddenly tired. "It was an ironic contrast to your early exit of another meeting this morning."

Christine felt the queasiness return as she remembered that yes, that awful meeting had only occurred that morning. With all the terribly distracting events of the day, she had completely forgotten about the very worst part.

An unwelcome image of the unsmiling Inspector leapt into her mind, and she could barely keep from groaning as she remembered the true complexity of all those problems she still hadn't solved.

In any case, she had not spoken to Madame Giry since she had raced away from that horrid meeting, and had no idea what to say to her now. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she waited for the overdue reprimands.

However, to her surprise, Madame Giry placed a comforting hand on her bowed shoulder and met her eyes with an even gaze as Christine slowly raised them, peering in surprise through her eyelashes.

"You will be happy to know that after the unseemly rudeness which provoked your exit, I gave the Inspector quite a talking to."

"You gave the Inspector a talking to?" Meg gasped incredulously, sharing Christine's wide-eyed wonder, picturing the man of such importance at the wrong end of Madame Giry's wrath.

"I told him," Madame Giry said with a rather unexpected smile, "that if he wanted to extract information about the Opera Ghost from one of my daughters, then he had another thing coming."

Christine broke into a smile herself at this, feeling glorious relief lift some of the tension from her shoulders. Once Madame Giry had made her decision, there was nothing and no one that could change her mind. And nobody, not even the Inspector, would dare risk making the woman angry. So she was safe for now! And Erik… the ominous threat that had seemed to face Erik for the past few days was gone!

"Christine," Madame Giry said quietly, breaking into the girl's jubilant thoughts, and the corners of her mouth drooped slightly as she looked up to find an expression of utmost seriousness lining the woman's face.

Christine's narrow shoulders sank a little once more as she came to a dull realisation that her troubles would never simply float away. She had not been completely happy, relaxed, satisfied for years; it was more of a habit to be vaguely miserable these days. Why had she taunted herself with thoughts of happiness?

As she heard Madame Giry sigh wearily, Christine gazed at her shoes, waiting for the woman to deliver the usual dose of pessimism. Instead, however, came a question from the previously silent Meg, standing slightly behind Christine:

"Christine… are those pebbles in your hair?"

Christine shot a glare full of mortified warning at her friend as Madame Giry sighed once more, with a lot more vehemence. Meg clapped a hand over her mouth to mute a bout of giggling while both of her companions silently grew pinker in the face.

"And I was just wondering what could possibly make this conversation even worse," Christine said mournfully, attempting to brush the pebbles discreetly out of her curls and failing rather miserably.

"I needn't bother uncovering drama around this place; you girls produce enough of it as it is," Madame Giry said wryly, staring from one of her girls to the other as she shook her head. "No, Christine, I don't need or want an explanation for the pebbles; I'm quite sure I would prefer not to know."

Upon these words Christine flushed even further and stopped combing her fingers through her hair, feeling quite put out. She was desperate to change the subject of the horrid conversation; she felt she could even bear hearing whatever bad news Madame Giry had been attempting to tell them.

"It is about Erik?" she asked quietly, looking at Madame Giry as the woman nodded, eyes narrowing once more with purpose.

"Is it ever about anything else?" the woman sighed vividly, stabbing a pin violently through an escaping strand of hair from her braided bun. "I believe that I must have angered the Inspector this morning, Christine, and you can probably imagine how. I passed by the managers' office on my way to the meeting this afternoon and found the door open. That man who was writing out the interview this morning, Monsieur Manesse I believe, came strolling out of the room just before I passed it."

Here Madame Giry's mouth tightened slightly, and she looked at both of the girls severely before continuing:

"Now, remember girls that I would never allow either one of you to break into the manager's office on a whim as I did. There is considerable difference between my station at the Opera House and yours, and I dare say you would get into more trouble than I would, had I been caught. However, after the excitement of this morning's meeting, I loosened my morals somewhat and decided to gather whatever information I could on the action the managers are planning to take. For they have not given up, _mes filles_; the Messieurs are terribly stubborn when it comes to matters of finance."

She gazed to the heavens and shook her head mordantly.

"That is what our good Monsieur O.G. is to them, you understand: a symbol of wasted money each month. They were just waiting for an opportunity like this, to rat out the Phantom once and for all. None of those men care about Joseph Buquet; I bet the Inspector and his friend have been offered a hefty reward for catching Erik."

"But whatever did you find in the office, Madame?" Christine broke in, her patience exhausted. If bad news was to arrive, she wanted it soon. Nothing could be done, no plans could be made if the problem was not discovered.

Madame Giry nodded understandingly, and hastened to continue.

"On a desk inside the office lay a large piece of paper bearing the signatures of both managers and today's date. It was a certificate granting the use of hounds to search through the underground passages of the Opera House."

Christine gasped; she felt Meg move a little, in shock or incomprehension, beside her.

"The search warrant comes into effect the day after tomorrow. Erik is no longer safe here."

"But the lake-" Christine said wildly, "surely the lake would protect him from the dogs!"

Madame Giry shook her head wearily. "You think there is only one way to enter his home, Christine? They will find him. It's simply a matter of time."

Christine slumped slowly against the hard wall behind her, closing her eyes for a moment while her mind and heart raced almost painfully fast.

"Does he know?" she whispered finally, overcome by the terrible combination of shock and panic.

"You must tell him immediately, Christine. I was going to inform him myself, but… the pebbles in your hair suggest that he'll receive the news more favourably if it comes from you." Madame Giry allowed herself a small, sad smile at this, but a concerned Meg was the only one who saw.

Christine's hair streamed wildly behind her as she raced breathlessly down the corridor.

**xxx**

**A/N: Geez, Christine just never gets a break, does she? I thought my life as a 16 year old girl was hard enough with all my guy-problems, my friend-problems and my maths problems- but wow. I'd so have broken down by this point. But hey, them's the breaks for being a character in one of my stories. :)**

**There will be a lot of Erik in the next chapter to make up for this one, so look forward to it guys. The story's coming to a climax, so prepare for further action and excitement. (!)**

**Thanks to everyone for your reviews, and a special welcome to all my lovely new reviewers! **

**A bientot,**

**Froody**


	22. Stairs

**A/N: And here it is, the first holiday chapter! Named as such because I am on holidays! Yay! (Finally.) Now, be warned: this chapter is not necessarily such a cheerful one just because I'm in my pyjamas at 9:30 am on a Tuesday morning. In fact, I think I've tapped most of my homework frustration into this keyboard, so enjoy the angst:) **

**xxx**

"Erik!" Christine cried as her shoes clapped on the wide stone staircase, her knuckles white as she kept a strong grip on the cold banister. "Erik!"

She knew that her efforts were almost certainly futile, but she could not bear waiting to warn him. Her mind steamrolled ahead as she yanked her skirts higher in frustration, a buckle here, a bead there catching the lace and fabric- but Christine gave no thought to a ruined hem or loose threads. She still had to reach the bottom of this endless staircase, find the boat and endure the long trip across the lake before she could tell Erik about the danger he was so soon to face.

At last, Christine could see the dim, green-tinged light which signalled the welcome end of the stairs, and she tripped hurriedly around the last turn and out onto flat ground.

Her eyes rose at last from her feet and her skirts, which she consequentially dropped upon the unexpected sight before her.

"Erik!" she gasped, racing towards him, hindered somewhat by a growing tangle of threads around her ankles.

"I heard you calling for me," Erik said calmly, his composure at a direct contrast to Christine's agitation. He reached out as she finally fought her way to him, however, and his embrace was soothing enough despite his cool appearance. "I was not expecting you to return quite so suddenly, I must say."

"Oh, Erik, you're in terrible danger!" Christine cried, ripping herself out of his arms, and gazing distraughtly into his cool blue eyes.

"Again?" The man sighed ungraciously, lowering his arms from Christine's shoulders. "It that what this visit is about? Warning me of the appalling instability of my position here? _Ma chérie_, you are cheating our good friend Madame Giry. That is what she lives for."

"Erik, please be sensible!" Christine said heatedly, feeling a flush raise to her cheeks. "The Inspector has finally collaborated with the managers to run a complete search under the Opera House!"

Her pleading eyes widened as she saw a grim smile begin to spread across Erik's face. He cracked his knuckles ominously and with one pale hand began to finger something hiding beneath his cloak, secured tightly around the side of his belt, thankfully out of view.

Christine shook her head wearily at her angel's desperate lack of understanding. Slightly nauseated, she closed her eyes tightly against the barrage of images which suddenly flew to mind of that hideous object beneath the Phantom's cloak, and of Joseph Buquet, and the screams and the sounds and the heat of the stage lights and the snow…

When Erik began to speak, slowly, in a well-measured voice which relieved none of Christine's anxiety, she slowly opened her eyes and blinked a little, slightly groggy from the vivid memories.

"You must always remember, Christine, that although I allow you seemingly complete access to my abode, do not believe that everyone is granted the same privilege."

Frustration crept into her strained voice as Christine responded violently. "But they're bringing dogs, Erik! They'll find you, no matter how many traps you set! A dog's nose is more powerful than your damned noose!"

A pallor swept into Erik's face, and he stood very still upon hearing those words.

"Dogs… so the management has finally given permission."

"Whatever do you mean?" Christine cried, distress shortening her patience considerably.

Erik began to pace back and forth in the small space before the stairs. His cloak whipped the air violently as he turned sharply on his heel, though his slick black hair remained firmly in place.

Christine didn't know whether the man looked more terrifying while walking towards the lake or away from it- whether the blankness of the mask was preferable to the cold, drawn lines of his visible face. Staring, horrified at the silent indecision before her, she quickly lapsed into the tremulous beginnings of a panic that grew louder and shriller as she continued.

"They'll find you, oh they'll find you, and they'll take you away and they'll burn your home and they'll hang you, Erik! They'll hang you! They'll hang _you_…"

"Enough!" Erik roared, breaking his steady pace, turning to Christine and grabbing her harshly around the wrists.

She gasped, wincing at the sudden pain, and Erik's face turned ashen, dropping her limp wrists like burning lumps of coal. He drew her instead into his arms, rubbing shaking hands on her trembling shoulders.

Christine lay her head tiredly on Erik's chest for the umpteenth time that day, accepting the soothing nature of his embrace. But after a few minutes, when she had calmed herself sufficiently to notice such things, she realised that she could still feel the shake of his hands as they hung on her smooth back. She pulled away gently, and took one shaking hand between her two as Erik gazed down at the floor. It was as though the man had suddenly forgotten what to do, how to be in control.

"When are they coming?" he suddenly asked, shifting his gaze so it met Christine's.

She shook her head, unconsciously signifying her uncertainty. "Soon. Madame Giry said tomorrow- no, the day after tomorrow. That is when the dogs will be allowed down here."

"And they'll bring them as soon as they are given the chance." Erik nodded to himself, bringing his hands to his forehead and massaging his temples forcefully. "But where am I to go?"

"Go?" Christine said dumbly.

"Yes, go!" Erik replied tersely, lowering his fingers from his head and glaring at Christine. "How could I stay here?"

He stalked over to the edge of the lake and kicked at some loose stone viciously, watching the ripples mar the placidity of the water's surface with some grim satisfaction.

With his back still turned to Christine, he continued, voice slightly distorted as it echoed back from the cavern walls.

"I built my home with adequate protection from fellow men, it seems, but not dogs. Oh, not dogs," he breathed, the very essence of scornful irony dripping from his words. "No, I have never even considered this sort of intrusion. The previous managers would never have heard of such a thing, dogs in a treasured place of the arts."

"Scrap metal tradesmen!" he shouted bitterly to the walls, though traces of a mocking humour still remained in his voice. "Who would have known? And yet it seems the Phantom of the Opera has been beaten by a pair of tone-deaf fools and a pack of mangy mongrels!"

"Oh, stop it!" Christine whispered despairingly from behind her fingers.

"Why?" Erik asked scornfully. "How many future opportunities will I have to shout wrathfully at these walls? I daresay the rats will miss me."

Christine turned away and began to climb away, back up the staircase. Her heels only clattered faster against the stone as Erik called for her to stop. She could not bare to stand there and listen to her angel's desperate wrath. It was all too painful. She had no answers to Erik's problems.

He did not follow her, and somehow that made Christine's heart sink a little lower in her chest.

**xxx**

"My goodness, you look terrible!"

Christine winced inwardly as she slid into her seat next to Meg at the long wooden table in the meal room. She knew that glances would now begin to come her way, beckoned by the renowned subtlety of Marie, a dancer of a similar age to Meg and Christine at the Opera House.

"You can understand why," an unpleasant voice came from further down the table, "La Carlotta has returned and will soon be replacing our favourite star!"

"_Tais-toi_!" Meg glared at the owner of the rude remark, and the entire tittering table quietened in a moment as an angry Madame Giry leaned over her daughter threateningly, somehow attracted as always to the sound of argument.

"I will not stand for such language," she stated tightly, then, in a surprising twist, grabbed Christine's arm instead of Meg's.

Christine sighed to herself as she was forcibly wheeled out of her seat and out of the hall. Not only did this day seem to roll on forever, but it seemed she would never be allowed to eat again.

The sound of curious chatting from the room she had just left followed her until the pair reached a bend in the corridor, and then Christine was left with just the muted patting of shoes on the highly polished floorboards.

"How did Erik respond to the news?" Madame Giry finally asked as they reached a deserted section of corridor.

"How would you respond to the news?" Christine responded with a sigh, sliding to sit on the floor at the woman's feet.

"Was it that immensely painful?" Madame Giry asked with a dry smile, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall in a way completely unlike a trained dancer. "I expected as much."

"It was worse," Christine sighed, closing her eyes. "He doesn't know what to do. I didn't know what to do."

"Do any of us?"

Christine slid open her eyelids as a cold feeling began to grip her from the inside, the tension building in her stomach once more. "You don't have any ideas?"

How could Madame Giry not know what to do? This was a desperate situation- even Erik had failed to consider the possibility of the intrusion of dogs into his treasured passages! And Madame Giry, the wisest of Christine's guardians, was as blank and helpless as the rest of them!

"But…" Christine whispered, gazing with wide pleading eyes at her shrugging companion, desperate for any counsel, any wisdom. Her angel, her angel could not be found! She knew, deep in her heart, in a dark and forbidding place that was quashed beneath naive idealism most of the time, that if Erik was found he could have no excuses, no leniency for his previous crimes. The police would not feel sympathy for a man with distorted features and a miserable past. They would pay no attention to the splendour of beauty the monster was able to create given an easel, a musical instrument, or lease to sing!

All they would see would be the mask. The mask, trademark of villains and thieves everywhere. Hide your identity, get away with the crime. The murder.

But Erik was not like that! But they wouldn't _understand_…

A low moan choked itself from Christine's throat, and tears leapt to her eyes like a hot spring bursting free of the ground. She turned so that her side was pressed into the wall and buried her head in her skirts, knees supporting her head, miserably sobbing at her inability to do anything- the collective inability of everyone she had ever looked to for guidance to do anything at all.

"Oh, Christine," came the irritated voice of Madame Giry through the muffling layers of tears and skirts, "When was the last time crying did you any good?"

Anger and frustration leaping to a head, Christine got to her feet and faced Madame Giry defiantly as her tear-streaked, blotchy face turned quickly redder. "My tears are more helpful to me than you'll ever be!" she yelled at the startled woman before her, and ran down the blank stretch of corridor behind her, not waiting long enough to see the wide look of hurt darken Madame Giry's face.

Christine slowly became aware of an unpleasant ache in her tired legs as she dashed blindly down the passageway, loose threads twisting threateningly around her bare calves. Eventually she slowed, and collapsed breathlessly against a wall, a stinging in her eyes and a stitch in her side.

Evidently she had climbed too many stairs, and raced down too many corridors for one day. And what a day. Christine couldn't remember the last time she had experienced so much drama in such close, sharp bursts.

And as she heard a bright, cheery whistle quickly approaching from the left, she gave a long, frustrated sigh, knowing that there was nowhere she could escape to before this next confrontation. And besides, she was awfully sick of running.

The whistling stopped as the whistler turned the corner, evidently aware of Christine's presence for the first time as he stared down the passageway towards her.

"Christine Daaé?"

But of course, who else would she have the delightful pleasure of meeting right now, just to finish her spectacular day?

The Inspector, having paused upon the unexpected sight of Christine leaning rather inelegantly on the wall of an empty corridor, started forward cheerfully once more as the surprise wore off.

"Mademoiselle, but who else would I find in a deserted passageway at a time when all the other girls are at dinner?" His voice was bright, but Christine felt she could detect an undertone of menace to his words.

She averted her eyes, hoping it appeared coy and not rude- heaven knows, after all, it would do good to seem unburdened with darker purposes.

"I was just speaking with Madame Giry, Monsieur. However, I- I forgot to retrieve something from my dormitory and- and was just trying to remember just what I needed."

Christine could see the Inspector nodding his head through her eyelashes, and cursed herself at her ridiculous tale.

"When you were speaking to our good Madame," the Inspector began, his words calm and measured, giving Christine a sudden sprinkling of hope, "did she by any chance happen to mention that which she recently discovered in the managers' office?"

With those words, Christine's heart sank considerably, and she dropped her gaze immediately, having not even realised that she had begun to look up.

"Whatever would that be?" she lied, her tone slightly too high to be called normal.

"We will find your angel," the Inspector said calmly, ignoring her words and fixing Christine with a sharp gaze that belied his soft, moustached appearance. "He is a murderer, a bad man, and he will deserve his punishment when we find him."

Christine felt the humiliating wave of tears begin to sting her eyes, but she closed her eyes and used her every effort to will them away. When she eventually looked up, the corridor was empty.

Heart beating rapidly, Christine released a startled, confused sob, and walked shakily to her empty dormitory as quickly as she could, collapsing fully-dressed on her cold, stiff mattress.

**xxx**

**A/N: Et, voila! And thank goodness, the day encompassing many chapters has finally ended! Wow, if I had a day like this, I don't think I'd get up the next morning. But we'll just have to see what Christine does, won't we?**

**Thanks to all who reviewed! Greatly appreciated. However looks to the rest of you with glowing menace in her eyes- nah, just kidding, but there was a surprising lack of response to the last chapter, and I don't know whether it's because Erik didn't make an appearance or because it was shorter than the mega chapter before it, but... I miss the awesome reviews!**

**Hope you all enjoy it anyway, and catch ya later!**

**-Froody**


	23. Dilemma

**A/N: Thanks especially for all the constructive criticism in the last set of reviews; it probably reflects quite a bit in this chapter! Enjoy:

* * *

**

At first Christine had tried to bury her head (and her troubles) securely under her pillow, expecting sleep to sweep in quickly after her exhausting day. After the first hour, blaming the irritating noises from beds around her as the other girls came shuffling in noisily, the pillow was thrown aside in favour of thick winter blankets. But after an endless, frustrating, restless age, when the last of the whispered giggles surrendered to the early hours, Christine had abandoned that optimistic notion.

Her body was not going to give her the pleasure of a good night's sleep. Oh no. Possibly this was some malevolent punishment for depriving her system of food all day. Thankfully the hunger pangs had died away somewhere amid her restless turning. They had been replaced with a vague nausea stirring at the pit of her empty stomach.

Finally it was all too much for Christine- sleep was not meant to involve effort! She swung her stiff legs clumsily, narrowly avoiding the glass of water balancing precariously on the side of her bedside table, and dragged herself rather unbecomingly out of the tangled sheets. Hoping that the crack of her back hadn't alerted anyone of her movements, Christine padded slowly out of the room, using whatever light available to avoid jarring her knees on the iron frame of one of the many beds.

As soon as the door had gently clicked shut, Christine exhaled deeply and stood for a moment, slumped, the chill of the night and the lack of her warm blankets raising the hair on her exposed arms and neck. After a moment she began down the empty corridor; Christine was loath to meet a wandering drunken stagehand of some variety- or worse, a wandering Madame Giry.

_Or even a wandering pack of hounds_, she thought sardonically, clutching her elbows as she turned the corner and paused. But where to now?

The bathroom appeared to be an attractive location in comparison to the very few alternatives, and Christine soon found the closest one. Quite unsurprisingly, it was empty, and she slipped in, quickly lighting a lamp and immediately regretting it.

The dirty, scratched and hatefully reflective mirror lining the wall adjacent to the door was garishly large, such as befitted the backstage of an opera house. Like most females of her age, Christine could hardly help but glance at her reflection, almost as a habit, and the sight she saw was quite appalling.

The bodice of yesterday's dress had shifted rather inappropriately (and uncomfortably), making Christine fervently glad that she'd avoided any wayward stagehands on the way to the bathroom. Once that untidiness had been corrected, her eyes were drawn to her face. If Christine had suffered unwarranted loads of stress the previous day, her face was the proof of it.

Although a pale complexion was well sought after, and even expected in the wintertime, Christine highly doubted that even a ghost would covet the thin white cheeks resting tiredly beneath two very red, bloodshot eyes.

And the tangle of matted wire which often passed for hair in the favourable light of day above this pallor did not escape notice either.

"If ever there was an Opera Ghost," Christine muttered deprecatingly to her reflection, then rubbed her eyes as they attempted to widen, itching uncomfortably under the strain.

A mirror! She was standing before a mirror, whispering about the Opera Ghost, looking like a demon from the very depths of the wilderness, in front of a mirror!

Christine felt very much like ramming her head painfully against the grimy plaster walls, or maybe even the mirror's glass, but somehow restrained herself. Apart from the pain, she didn't much feel like talking to Erik at the moment if he did happen to be on the other side of the mirror- no, especially if he had been watching her.

Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, deciding to dress properly and maybe battle her curls a little. She no longer felt like chasing sleep, and a restless urge to do something, anything, had uncovered some hidden source of adrenaline within her tired body.

Swinging open the door to find her dressing room quite still and empty gave Christine an odd feeling of relief. She had no reason to expect anything different, but somehow she suspected that she was not the only restless person wandering through the Opera House that night.

Walking briskly to the top drawer of her dresser, Christine pulled out a brush and tugged furiously at her hair for a while until things started to take shape. She plaited her combed-out curls with an undeniable feeling of accomplishment. Even if she could only do little tasks, she was still achieving something. Completing any goal successfully at this late hour after her hopeless day of open ends seemed like a genuine triumph.

Her hair now passable (though for what she had no clue) Christine gently pulled the doors of her wardrobe open and flicked through her many garments, fingering the fabric to recognise dresses in the poor light. She finally slipped a warm winter dress from its hanger and hung it on the porcelain handle of the wardrobe while preparing to change.

Fingers paused on her top button, however, Christine gave a slow, measured look to the full-length mirror across the room. Her gaze wandered between the vase of slightly wilted roses on her dresser and the mirror, and she released the button, moving instead to grab another dress from her wardrobe, hanging it heavily over the mirror's surface.

That done, she quickly changed, warm skin stung by the biting chill in the dark room.

Fully, freshly dressed and feeling much better for it, Christine sank into the chair in front of her dresser and gazed more happily at her reflection. Her smile faded a little as she glanced past herself, eyes wandering around the rest of the room behind her. Placed carefully atop her tall wardrobe rested a single object, somehow escaping the clothes and general disorder. An icon- the icon that had once belonged to her mother, then her father- and now her.

The familiar, empty feeling of loss and misery clenched bitterly within Christine, the old physical ache of sadness reawakening within her after too many months. Guilt and regret joined these hollow sensations; how long had it been since she had spared a thought for her father's spirit? The true spirit of her father. Christine had not once returned to the old chapel since Erik's revelation, had not even thought of it.

How long had she been visiting the place with an ulterior motive? Years. Since she was nine. Since the voice had appeared. But even then it had still been partially her father.

Christine could hardly bear to consider that particular dilemma. Instead, she stood and gazed at the clock, biting her lip as she saw the time and wondered whether the hour was entirely too odd for a small carriage-ride. There was no way she could pray for her father in the chapel any more; the thought filled Christine with a further sense of wrongness. But the old graveyard, her father's tomb- that was a place still holy, still sacred.

Admittedly, the time did not seem right, nor safe, to travel anywhere in, and so Christine filled in the restless hours, finding an apple to satisfy her wakening stomach, some coins and then sat in that lonely chair, staring expressionlessly at her covered mirror, lost in a cloud of troubled thoughts.

* * *

As the gentle rhythmic clopping of the trotting horse came from ahead, Christine shut her eyes momentarily and could almost smile. This was relaxing. The regular clip-clop of horseshoes on stone, the soothing motion of the carriage- it was almost infuriatingly peaceful.

Reluctant but firm in a will to remain awake and alert, Christine gazed tiredly over the side of the carriage watching the houses pass. If she hadn't travelled through Paris at this early hour previously, she would have been amazed at the bustling activity in the dark streets. But for bakers and butchers, florists and tailors and all shopkeepers alike, this quietly busy time was just an ordinary part of the workday.

Christine tucked her gloved hands deeply into her skirts as the chill rolled through the streets in the insidious form of mist. The scarf tucked securely around her neck didn't seem to provide enough warmth, and she shivered slightly. But before the cold became too bitter, the carriage stopped before a heavy iron gate, and she stepped out into the gradual dawn light with an odd sense of apprehension.

As superstitious as theatre folk generally seem to be, Christine was proud to think that not much of the nonsense had rubbed on to her during her years at the Opera House. A cemetery would usually hold no great terror over her, particularly a cemetery that Christine was so unhappily familiar with. But there was something about the twisting movement of the fog, the untouched snow drifts at the dark entrance, the deadened sound of the winter morning, that made Christine thoroughly doubtful of her hasty decision to pay homage to her father.

She quickly glanced over her shoulder, eager to find the carriage driver waiting there, the warmth and normalcy of a horse and trap surely some protection against whatever awaited her through the iron gates. But the space behind her lay empty, and only the cold, dead tracks of the carriage's wheels remained of her safety blanket.

Once the initial chill had finished its coursing journey down her spine, Christine frowned a little. Had she paid the driver before he'd all too suddenly departed?

"It must be a little early for the poor man," she said quietly to herself, and a small smile brightened her pale face, like the sun that was beginning to wash over the snow with a weak glow.

Some of her tension relieved, Christine stepped carefully down the icy path to the imposing gates and breathed a tight sigh of relief as they creaked solemnly open. Once inside the enclosed grounds, all fear and intimidation evaporated from Christine's mind. The path was familiar, known to her in a way that was both physical, of course, yet more strongly emotional. The tears she had shed on this path, the dread she had felt those first few years; as awful as her visits had seemed to the little girl, she recognised every tree by the side of the path, every marble statue.

The white sheets of snow that covered the landscape hid nothing of the graveyard from Christine.

Head lowered, clasping the green stalks of flowers, she made her slow, reverent journey to the last grave at the end of the path. She was not sure whether she would climb the stone staircase and enter the mausoleum itself, but placing the bundle of flowers at the top of the stairs was an old custom she meant to keep.

Her fingers slightly numb from the morning cold, she fumbled slightly with the metal vase as she pulled icy, dead flowers out and replaced them. Having finished that task, Christine sat lightly on the last wide step, resigned to the inevitable chill of the damp snow.

She gazed up at the great, locked doors of her father's tomb and felt peace begin to settle within her. It was not necessarily a happy or optimistic feeling, that peace, but it deadened other thoughts and allowed Christine to think properly; it cleared her mind.

And how could her mind and thoughts not drift immediately to Erik, and the huge dilemma he faced? For she had come to realise that it was a dilemma, a solvable predicament that the man faced, not an inescapable trap.

He could leave the Opera House if he had to. The man was intelligent and had more than enough money to disappear from under the Inspector's ruddy nose immediately- if he so wished. If Erik had not been sufficiently genius enough to summon a plan, Madame Giry would certainly have provided help. Christine had been the only person without an answer, without a method of escape. She had been fooling herself, hiding what she unhappily knew beneath layers of fear and anxiety.

Christine closed her eyes as she finally accepted the only logical conclusion. It was her. She was that conclusion. She was the obstacle, the complication, the cause of the dilemma.

Erik could not leave the Opera House because he would be leaving her.

Neither the man nor Madame Giry had informed her of this unfortunate truth. Neither would ask her to abandon her life at the Opera House. Madame Giry would never dream of allowing her to leave, to live away from her home so early in life, and with such a companion… and Erik would never ask such a thing of her, if only because of the old fear of rejection.

She could not beg Erik to stay, just as he could not ask her to leave. This was the trap the Inspector had laid for the Opera Ghost. It was the hounds or Christine.

Erik knew he had to abandon his hallowed cavern beneath the Opera House- he had said as much to Christine when she had warned him about the dogs. And Christine knew it, too.

Someone had to leave. But where, where would Erik go? He could not flee the country, she could not stand it; but even a train journey would be an insurmountable risk. They could disguise him in some way, cover his disfigurement, his mask completely, smuggle him across the country, or even simply bribe a safe escape. There was no shortage of money providing an obstacle to any plans, no insufficiency when it came to creative and devious planning…

But wherever Erik would go, he could not go too far. Christine needed Erik almost as much as he needed her. She knew it, and she knew in her heart that she would escape with him if it came to it. Oh, she did not want to leave her home with the dancers, her place on the stage, Meg, Madame Giry… but she could not live without her angel, the most central figure in her life since the death of her father.

Christine would leave the comforting security of the Opera House to be with Erik. She, at the tender age of sixteen, had never previously entertained the notion of abandoning the theatre, for marriage, sickness or any other reason. But she would leave all of it behind.

If need be. At the moment, staring into the space before her, unaware of the wet chill creeping through her skirt, Christine knew that there could be other possibilities, possibilities that might not have been explored by others.

It would have to be a close location, it would have to be somewhere nobody would ever dream of…

* * *

The Phantom gave her exactly ten minutes to gaze unseeingly at her father's tomb before he slid off the roof and stood before her at the top of the stairs.

* * *

**A/N: So there you have it: a long chapter with all of two lines of dialogue- Christine talking to herself. Very exciting, but I thought it cleared a couple of matters up that had arisen concerning plot holes… And yeah, a bit of a cliffhanger right at the end, but I thought that you all had probably guessed about Erik's whereabouts by that point in the story- and hey, nifty spot to end at. :)**

**This poor girl hasn't slept at all for about 24 hours by this point. Maybe I should be writing in a few more wild mood swings. Christine has been awake for about six chapters by now. Just thought I'd point that out. :)**

**Mominator, since I reply individually in emails to most other people, I'll just leave a quick note for you:**

**I cannot believe what a giant hole I seemed to leave in the story in the last chapter. Hopefully this has made the whole ordeal seem just a little bit more realistic, but seriously, if I do anything like that again… phwoar. :) I almost died when I realised how carried away I had become in the story. Oopsy. I guess this is for everyone who pointed out the lack of logic in the plot. Thanks guys! You make me feel a bit stupid, but you make the story much better. :)**

**And thanks to reviewers! **

**-Froody **


	24. Painting

* * *

"I really should have guessed," Christine said vacantly, eyes still fixed upon the high, icicle-laced doors of her father's tomb. She didn't turn and look at the silent Erik. The heat of his gaze was warning enough. But warning of what?

As the silence extended, both parties seemingly content with private meditation, her gaze never faltered, though her eyebrows drew together severely. She clicked her tongue pensively while Erik settled himself almost casually on the topmost step, leaning lightly on the left ridge lining the path.

Finally Christine's eyes widened, and she placed her hands gingerly on the step above her, mouth dropping slightly open as she stared ahead. She leaned more heavily forward as a bittersweet expression softened her face. She paid as much attention to her damp, ruined gloves as she did to an inquisitive move from Erik, above her. Her reverie was only broken when his voice came through the silence.

"You have not been here for months."

Christine looked at Erik as he spoke, shifting her weight unconsciously from her aching palms. She lifted her damp hands and rubbed them together while a strange thrill passed through her. She had only now realised that this was the first occasion she had ever seen her angel out of his niche, the Phantom out of the Opera House. The man looked different. More vulnerable somehow. There were no shadows, no creaking floors, no trapdoors or mirrors or organs, just the pale, revealing light of dawn and a complete lack of acoustics. His voice sounded different.

It was more than a removal of character, a change of scenery and atmosphere. Christine had heard him, seen him on the roof of the Opera House just the day before- though she had been more than slightly distracted at that time. Sitting on an icy step with his hands laid open on his knees, Erik looked… less defensive. More uncomfortable, Christine quickly noted; a constant shifting of weight and the tensed muscle in a pale, exposed cheek betrayed this unease. Not cold, she thought rather enviously; no, living underground next to a lake would certainly help to take the edge off the chill.

He looked thinner, she decided, and much more vulnerable. Obviously an important reason to stay out of direct light.

The wind detoured through the graveyard and Christine's newly focussed gaze might have almost caught a shiver from behind Erik's layers.

Of course, a small voice reminded Christine bitterly, this vulnerability could easily have sprung from the terrible quandary you have to save this man from. An entirely unpleasant thought, which immediately punctured her distraction and reminded Christine of her recent inspiration.

She refocussed, and looked into Erik's slightly bemused gaze.

"I suppose that you have not found some brilliant plan to remove yourself safely and immediately from the Opera House and have come to share the genius of it?"

Erik shook his head slowly, a darkness growing back over his expression like a stubborn weed with deep roots.

Christine sighed, flicking her eyes to the mausoleum almost involuntarily, before resettling her gaze upon the top step and its melancholy attachment.

"It's possible that the dogs would be unsuccessful. Maybe your traps would work, maybe you could still be safe next to the lake when the Inspector finally abandons his search."

"Many things are possible. Heaven knows, I'd risk it…" he sighed mutedly, fists balled angrily in his lap. Christine looked away, ashamed with herself for pulling at loose strands of hope, trying to hide the unfixable tear. Sighing, she knew that her recent idea would have to be used. And it wasn't the worst plan either- just a little dishonourable.

"You have to move before the day is out, Erik," she began, turning back to fix the man with severity- but he was not listening.

"I could go wherever I like, Christine," he breathed, pressing his head mercilessly against his fists. "I have more money than even Firmin can dream of, and I have intelligence to aid me in whatever plans would need to be generated. I have contacts all over the country- and outside of it. I have all the means, Christine, my angel- but I cannot- will not use them."

Christine's hot eyes had fallen away from the painful view of Erik, blurring upon the soothing sight of white snow. But she could still feel him glance at her, cautiously perhaps, guardedly. How could she not feel his earnest vigilance, his perusal for just a single signal, something which would allow the man to ask her that question, the answer to which was burning at the end of Christine's tongue?

The urge to scream, to bury herself in his arms, to beg Erik to take her wherever he went was almost painful. But she could not do it, she couldn't say the words that would make it all better, just as she could no longer depend on him so utterly as she once had. She had needed her angel to survive throughout the cold and empty years of the winter of her childhood- but she had learnt a little about self-reliance and rash decisions since then.

Besides, all hope was not lost- not while her plan was yet unvoiced.

"Have you come to this graveyard before, Erik?" she asked softly, curiosity fighting to mingle with her purpose as she glanced back to him. He looked more than slightly disappointed by her words- the word devastated came to mind. Somehow, with a heart of guilt, Christine knew that she had managed to rip hope from under his feet- but she was determined to quickly replace it. Once he had answered her question.

"I have," he answered slowly, with the air of one who doesn't have much more to lose.

Christine frowned slightly. "You followed me to the grave of my father, then?" she asked with a hint of anger, although she knew that these woes and past hurts had all been faced before.

"I was your father back then, Christine," Erik said tiredly, massaging his temples. "As pathetic and disgusting as it was- and still is, I suppose," he continued bitterly, "I had to maintain your belief in your Angel of Music."

"But his grave…" Christine began heatedly, then stopped herself with some effort. Now was not the time, not in the midst of these desperate circumstances and most definitely not in the view of her poor father's true spirit. She calmed herself with the thought that she had already forgiven Erik, forgiven him much desecration, even if it was of a slightly differing nature.

"His grave," she continued, pausing, drawing Erik's attention back to her words, his eyes to her face. "We could hide you inside the mausoleum until they have stopped their hunt."

Christine sat back after that sentence. She felt almost triumphant as she watched Erik almost reel with the idea- and with the shock that she, of all people, would dare to suggest such a thing.

Erik tore open his mouth, breathing rather heavily, twisting his gloves in consternation. "Surely- surely there must be a better- a _nobler_-"

"We shouldn't think too much about what the noble thing to do would be, Erik," Christine responded with a slight, sad smile. "I am offering you a refuge, of my own free will- and I think that this would be the best place for you to hide."

"Live in a tomb," Erik breathed, shaking his head dully.

Christine climbed to her feet defiantly, and stalked up the steps until she was towering over Erik. "My _father's _tomb. You spent so many years trying to be a ghost, Erik- why couldn't you live like one now?"

"Christine, I believe I have been living like a ghost for years- a Phantom, as it were," Erik said sardonically.

"Can you think of another way of living with such easy access to- to the Opera House?"

This was Christine's drawcard. Her plan may have seemed a little bizarre and unnecessary morbid until now- but she knew that there was no other way that she could visit Erik so easily. And, if it had to came to it, there was no way that dogs would be allowed to search within the grounds of a cemetery.

She gazed pleadingly at Erik's bowed head as he seemed to consider her idea, along with its many problems. Finally she decided upon another approach, and stepped back a few metres, crossing her arms. "You're not scared of the graveyard, are you?"

This teasing jibe appeared to do the trick. Erik got to his feet and began to saunter towards the entrance of the mausoleum. "You do realise, my dear, that I sleep in a cof-" He stopped, as if suddenly aware that his words might not have been met with the greatest approval. "I am not afraid of many things in this city, Mademoiselle, and graveyards are not part of the exclusive list. I was merely concerned for you," he said, turning on his heel and catching a smiling Christine with the flap of his cloak.

He paused like that for a moment as if he'd forgotten what he was attempting to do or say, like he was somehow lost. Christine lowered her eyes as she shook her head, mildly amused by this uncharacteristic display. She could feel his disbelieving gaze scan her for signs of insincerity; he took such a time to reassure himself of her earnestness that Christine began to feel faint shame at her own audacity!

He finally broke the discomfort, obviously having achieved some reassurance, and stepped closer to her, catching her own gaze once more with the burn of his eyes. "It is a brilliantly cunning plan, my dear- I'm surprised that I missed it myself." He sighed quietly once he had spoken, and the dark look returned to his eyes. "I have barely left the Opera House in all the years that I've lived there. I'll miss it, hellish, miserable hole though it is. At least I can take up my abode in relatively familiar-" he threw a cynical smile over his shoulder, "and similar surroundings."

"You will be safe here," Christine said gently, moving slightly closer to Erik, attempting to slip into his warm arms. He obliged rather happily, and she buried her numb nose into his warm jacket.

"Will you tell Madame Giry where you are going?" Christine asked after a comfortable moment, raising her head as she looked seriously into Erik's eyes.

"I don't know," he mused, perturbed by this new consideration. "Well, how am I to arrange things? I must bring my most valuable and necessary possessions here, of which there are a considerable amount, and I must somehow store the rest from searching eyes."

"And searching hounds," Christine agreed, frowning a little herself; she had not thought of the particulars of such an arrangement. "I don't imagine that Madame Giry will receive my idea with much benevolence."

"Unless that woman can offer us an alternative before the deadline, I don't imagine she can say anything against your proposal."

Christine smiled a little and leant back into Erik's chest, completely comfortable and enormously reassured by the fact that her angel would be safe. She was significantly less comfortable when Erik suddenly stiffened, jolting back a step and turning to stare at the mausoleum.

"Do you think that my organ will fit through the door?"

Christine shook her head and even laughed a little as she watched Erik circle her father's tomb with considerable concentration, mentally storing measurements, she was sure.

"You can take the phantom out of the opera, but you can't take the opera out of the phantom," she muttered to herself, but smiling all the while.

* * *

Having arrived back at the Opera House just in time for breakfast, Christine left Erik and tore to the dining hall, constantly looking up and down corridors for Madame Giry. If Erik was to resettle in her father's mausoleum by the next morning, arrangements needed to be made immediately. It already seemed like an impossible task to complete in the given time and it was barely past seven in the morning.

She joined the slowly moving line of people outside the hall impatiently, standing on her toes with the ease of a dancer to look over the many heads. She finally managed to push her way through the crowd and enter the warm room, catching sight of a worried Madame Giry almost instantly.

"Wherever have you been, young lady?" Madame Giry hissed, fixing Christine with a very black look indeed. "Missing from your bed- again! I can tell you, there will be trouble if this-"

Impatiently, Christine waved past the reprimands in a way she would never have done in the past, shy and timid as she was. As Madame Giry's eyes widened in shock, perhaps, or fury, Christine held a finger to her lips and gestured towards the door. However, as the girl swung on her heel to make her exit, she felt a strong hand grip her arm.

"Whatever it is, it can wait, Christine. No, I don't want any argument. You haven't eaten a proper meal in days."

And Madame Giry refused to listen to any furious whispers until Christine had dutifully fed herself. Once she had finally finished, the venerable woman steered her through the door and down the corridor until the cheerful sounds of breakfast could not be heard.

"Now then," she said, still frowning sharply, "what great plans have been concocted for Erik's escape?"

Christine sighed loudly in relief, and then explained her idea, placing particular emphasis on the fact that it was _her_ idea, and she had indeed given consent for such a disrespectful use of her father's tomb. She carefully avoided glancing at Madame Giry's face once she was finished, a little afraid of the disapproval she knew must be showing. After a moment of silence, however, when she gained a bit of courage, Christine was surprised to find that along with the expected disapproval, there was a hint of pride in the curve Madame Giry's thin lips.

"You are brave and generous to make Erik such an offer," the woman finally said, gently placing a hand on Christine's shoulder. "I must admit that I was becoming quite worried, but this will do; yes, this will do for now."

Christine bowed her head with a bit of a smile. "Thank you for your understanding," she said rather formally, then straightened, her face bright.

"After some of the things I have had to deal with over the years…" Madame Giry sighed, then pursed her lips together. "But back to business. I suppose there is an impossible load of toil to be undertaken in the few hours we have."

Christine nodded her agreement. "I don't think there are any travelling arrangements made, which is a slight problem."

"I can manage that easily," Madame Giry said. "I can even take a carriage to one of the side entrances to the passages leading from Erik's home."

Christine hugged the woman before swiftly making her way down beneath the Opera House, across the lake and onto the pebbly shore. She gazed around, eyes flickering over all the countless items which needed to be removed. How could three people possibly manage this feat in just one day?

She twisted around and almost fell backwards in shock as a loud banging echoed through the cavern. The noise had seemed to originate from somewhere upon the lake itself! Soon enough, however, the steady tapping of horseshoes on stone could be heard, and Christine's face fell into a (rather relieved) smile as she caught sight of Erik leading a horse towards her from some hidden path.

"But who is this?" she asked brightly as she walked over to the approaching horse and its master.

"This is my horse, Cesar," Erik told her, handing her the reigns as she brushed the silky black hair below the beast's eye with her hand. "He will be most useful today carrying some of my heavier items to the street."

"What a crime," Christine said with a smile, "this noble creature being used as a packhorse."

Erik turned to Christine from where he was stuffing bundles of manuscripts into a leather case. "I suppose you wouldn't offer to take his place?"

Christine laughed and backed away from Cesar, holding her hands out in mock surrender. "He isn't that noble!"

"None of us are," Erik muttered; or that is what Christine thought she heard. He stood up slowly, holding a hand to his back with a slight grimace. "Would you mind filling a couple of these bags," he said, gesturing to a pile of cloth sacks in the corner, "with whatever you would consider to be important or necessary to a ghost on the run?"

Christine nodded, frowning. "But how do I know which items you treasure most?"

"That which I treasure is not to be stuffed in a bag, Christine," was the only response she received on the matter. Erik clambered lightly into his boat, looking back to a questioning Christine. "I must go to the room you discovered the other day and collect some belongings," he said over his shoulder. "I doubt that the Inspector's hounds will be able to track me sufficiently to uncover that room, so I won't remove everything. If they do somehow break in, I am sure that they would be far more upset by what they discover than I would be."

"Don't forget to take some clothes," Christine told him, slightly worried by the fact that, of what she could see, all that Erik had packed so far were endless sheets of manuscript paper.

"I was thinking more along the lines of money," Erik said wryly, then disappeared into the darkness of the lake.

Christine gazed over the lake's glassy surface until she could no longer hear the gentle splashing of the boat, then sighed and took up an empty bag. Turning to face the cluttered room, she sighed again, this time with despair. She had no idea what men considered important, let alone the volatile Erik. If it were her who had to leave the Opera House, she knew what she would take: dresses, stockings, shawls, her hairbrush, soap, a small bundle of books…

Finally! Something that could possibly be found in this paper-strewn cavern!

Christine wandered through the room until she found a towering bookcase, stuffed and stacked with literature of assorted matter and language. She stared up at the small library with considerable dismay, wondering which tomes could be most precious to Erik. After much deliberation, she pulled a heavily worn spine towards her, trying not to sneeze as a small cloud of dust engulfed her. She dragged the book off the shelf and gazed at its cover curiously. It was completely blank, so she allowed the book to fall open. Upon the first glimpse of spindly blood red handwriting, she snapped the covers closed, heart racing. A diary. She fought her curiosity valiantly, knowing that reading the journal would be disgracefully invasive, almost as invasive as, well, peering through mirrors at unsuspecting little girls.

Gritting her teeth, Christine dropped the book into the bag, grabbing several other worn novels off the shelf and placing them on top of the first. She filled the remaining space in the bag with sheet upon sheet of manuscript paper, wincing slightly as the pages collided, crumpling the genius scrawled across their lined faces.

The first bag filled, she heaved it unceremoniously to a corner, dropping it to the ground with a small crash and turning to face a curious Cesar with an aching back.

"I don't know how you do it," she muttered, then straightened her spine, gazing with growing desperation across the room. She had barely made a dent in the endless sea of Erik's possessions!

Suddenly her eye caught on the massive organ, standing proudly in the centre of the room. It was not so surprising that she hadn't thought of it before, plastered with a disguise of compositions. She walked over to it slowly, remembering another visit she had made to Erik's lair, and the item which he had so mournfully sang to before planting it hurriedly on top of the organ…

Christine reached behind the candles and the paper (thinking that the move to a nice, uncluttered, fire-safe tomb was possibly a good idea after all) and quickly found it: Erik's battered monkey, cymbals clasped strongly at the front, velvet clothes betraying its oddly Persian background. She thrust it deep within her sack, knowing that Erik would want it, but not wanting to give him an opportunity to discover it and turn it aside in an attempt to preserve some strong, masculine image before her. Christine somehow doubted that Erik would react in such a shallow manner, but after living in a world of Raouls for her sixteen years, she was not about to take the chance.

Pleased with her recent acquisition, Christine meandered across the room and began to climb the short, spiralling steps at the corner of the opposite wall with a touch of timidity. The monkey had reminded her to check the hidden room from that previous visit, the room with the swan bed and the gauzy, black curtains.

The blackness which confronted Christine as she turned the corner was rather unsettling; her nerves were already heightened, the silent cavern instilling a tendency to be wary and succumb to fright. If it wasn't for the presence of Cesar, Christine felt she would never have dared explore this concealed room alone. As it was, she stifled a gasp and managed to turn around and take a candle from a lower step quite calmly.

However, once she had stepped back around the corner, the jolting shadows on the walls of the dark room from the shake of her hand could not be disguised so easily.

When at last her shallow circle of light bronzed upon something solid, Christine forgot her attempts to steady her hand as she frowned a little, surprised. On her previous visit to the room there had been nothing placed so awkwardly in the centre of the room.

She lowered the hand with the candle slowly, still afraid to lose her only source of light, and stepped forward. Why, it appeared to be some sort of easel! Yes, there were the brushes- now that she thought about it, she could even smell the faintly acrid hint of paint. The light was too dim to interpret the indistinct patches of dark colour on what she realised must have been the canvas, but it was definitely some relatively recent work of art crowding this shadowy room.

Christine froze where she was, doubt suddenly flying joining the niggling fear.

This was the room she'd expected, wasn't it?

When her question was perfunctorily answered seconds later, as if cued in by her uncertainty, Christine felt less relief and more shame as she twirled around to discover by the convenient light of a gas lamp, that yes, it was the correct room.

"Why must you always find me when I appear to be snooping?" Christine cried in embarrassment, flailing her arms and threatening the canvas behind her with the healthy flame of her candle.

Erik, who was, of course, the owner of the lamp, looked almost unfailingly amused. He placed the lantern on a nearby bench before stepping forward and gently removing the threatening candle from Christine's suddenly weak grasp.

"Your curiosity is undoubtedly a very active part of you, Christine. But- on this occasion, at least- you have not done anything regrettable, as I was already planning on showing you this painting before I leave."

Cheeks still flaming, but her curiosity still alive and well, Christine turned back to the painting upon these encouraging words. Yes, it was indeed the correct room- she could now see that the easel had been set in the cleared space before the bed which she had been expecting to find quite alone. That settled, she flicked her eyes back to the canvas- and her mouth fell open.

It had taken a second for her eyes to decipher exactly what she was seeing. It was the painting she had forgotten about, that same, mysterious painting Erik had mentioned but refused to show her. Christine had been quite absorbed with shock, shame and plentiful embarrassment on the morning that Madame Giry and Meg had found her on the floor of her dressing room, but she had been intrigued by the idea of it even back then.

She stepped closer to the easel, eyes wide, reaching a tremulous hand towards the canvas and tracing the images with a floating finger. Christine had obviously made great use of mirrors in the past, and even the occasional shiny teaspoon, but she had never been photographed, had never seen herself from another's eyes before- apart from a quick and superficial glance at the many portraits of herself lining another room in Erik's home, and that distressingly life-like mannequin which she hardly remembered. Even that frightful doll, dressed in its gorgeous wedding dress, with features so terribly similar to hers, could hardly compare to this painting. It was an enormously personal portrayal, and filled Christine with emotion.

For all the times she had been forced to reassure Erik of her feelings for him, she could feel them reflected innumerable times, imprinted in the canvas. She couldn't decide whose feelings were more openly betrayed on the easel- the artist or the subject.

She felt that every stroke of the brush revealed a little more of her heart. Christine didn't know whether to be upset by her obvious vulnerability to the mastery of this extraordinary artist- but she knew that Erik had always been able to read her. This painting was as personal as any the music Erik had composed for her.

There she lay, alone on a moonlit floor on the canvas, long, strokes of shadow enhancing what little light there was. The tranquil pallor of that midnight hour had been captured skilfully, layer upon layer of contrasting colours creating an astonishingly beautiful depth. The girl in the painting was asleep, but her face was open, composure relaxed, everything there exposed. Surrounding her were dozens of perfect roses in a prolonged circle, crimson dabs with a quick swirl of black and a thin scratch of green. She lay in comfort, it seemed, her arms and legs draped upon the floor, graceful in their simplicity. Her skirts gathered the moonlight between their folds, her simple dancing dress transformed into something beautiful. It was a painting which breathed an aura of timelessness.

Christine could hardly believe that it was her, her body, her face, portrayed so masterfully on the easel.

She gazed silently, full of wonder, her eyes fixed upon the small, exquisitely honest image of her face. She heard Erik shift behind her, possibly uncomfortable, waiting for some response. She slowly turned, and stared right back into his questioning eyes.

"Well?" he asked quietly, needing her voiced approval, Christine supposed- as if he had not just proved that he could read her as he liked. Knowing this, and too choked to answer him, she remained absolutely silent and turned back to the painting.

She felt Erik step closer, and was rudely surprised when he deftly removed the canvas from the easel, rolling it and binding it securely. She turned her eyes to him, frowning, and could only follow as he grabbed the gas lamp, swinging it beside him as he began to leave the room.

"I must thank you for reminding me to pack this," Erik said, rather stiffly, as the pair turned the corner and stepped down into the main room of his home. He turned his back to the slightly vexed Christine, sliding the painting into his leather case and buckling the front securely.

"I don't understand, Erik," Christine said softly, walking to him, placing a cautious hand on his tensed back. He sighed under her touch, bowing his shoulders.

"I expected a rather different response to the painting, I suppose. I spent so many hours capturing that moment. Perhaps it was only I who was touched by that night. The artist's imagination running rampantly from something that wasn't real."

"But- but Erik- you have no idea!" Christine gasped, amazed by Erik's misconceptions. She opened and closed her fists reflexively, agitated, yet somehow unable to articulate her feelings. "I could hardly stand the way you shoved it into that case! I- I was lost for words!"

"You liked it?" Erik asked softly, turning to face Christine, who was red and grasping for words as it was.

"Liked it? Oh, Erik, you painted my soul-"

And with that, Christine rushed forward unexpectedly, catching Erik quite by surprise as she flung her arms around his neck, putting every effort into conveying her appreciation more succinctly than mere language would allow. It soon appeared that the offended artist had quite forgiven her for her previous inadequacy as Erik met her kiss just as passionately.

A restless Cesar neighed quietly into the darkness hanging low over the lake, unaware of the couple behind him as he focussed on the approaching footsteps echoing softly through the cavern. It was the great black stallion Madame Giry noticed first as she finally stepped from the damp gloom of a passage, giving him a quick rub on the nose. Indeed, it took the woman a few moments once she had moved from the horse to understand just what she was witnessing on the pebbly shore. Finally she realised, and gasped in embarrassment. Christine gave a short scream immediately in response, her eyes flicking open to catch Madame Giry's over Erik's shoulder.

"Heavens!" the shocked woman cried, clutching at her chest. Her mouth gaped open completely uncharacteristically while Erik glared and Christine furiously batted air towards her flushed face. "I shouldn't- I should never have-"

"Walked into my home without knocking?" Erik suggested in an icy tone.

"On what door, Erik?" Madame Giry asked sarcastically, forgetting her embarrassed shock. Erik had nothing to say to this, and turned away in annoyance; a slight smile gradually appeared on the Madame's face as she began to assess the situation. "Well, at least I am now entirely satisfied with Christine's willingness," she chuckled, Erik joining her with a smile as they watched the poor girl burn another shade of crimson.

Christine attempted to cover her face with one hand while urging the other two to get on with the packing and preparations. All she received from these efforts was more laughter, as Erik remarked that he understood her caveman gestures all too well.

"Oh, enough," she muttered as the pair of them smiled, and stalked over to the pile of bags, walking back to the organ and stuffing handfuls of candles into one of them.

* * *

**A/N: Longest chapter by far, which pleases me, and hopefully you wonderful readers, too. I was actually wondering whether to split this into two parts- the graveyard and Erik's lair- but I eventually decided to just chuck it all together. I thought that perhaps it would all be a little too much for one chapter, but then I remembered that the last few chapters haven't possibly been as action-filled as some might like.**

**So tell me. Camping out in a mausoleum a little too gothic horror/extreme/outrageous for the Phantom of the Opera? Have I been reading a little too much Stephen King/Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? I'm also curious as to whether it was obvious that I was going to suggest Mr Daaé's tomb for Erik's hide-out. And whether I managed to capture the essence of Erik's painting.**

**The little bit of fluff at the end was mostly a gratuitous insertion by me and my fancies; I've been reading these two particular phics recently- neither of which could really be called E/C (anymore), which is a little depressing. One of them- Evergreen, by Nade-Naberrie, is actually suffering a giant patch of E/C angst- though you've probably already read the latest chapter by now (and isn't it amazing? If you haven't, read it now.) Anyway, as truly good stories seem to do, they derailed me slightly while writing this chapter, and I decided to give you readers (and yes, myself) a bit of E/C relief by fluffing up my own story. :) **

**So tell me what you thought! Hope you enjoyed!**

**-Froody**


	25. Departure

* * *

Seemingly endless hours later, just as Christine's muscles were about to seize up, Erik dropped a final sack on the floor, gazed about the room and pronounced the job done.

"There is nothing left here which is of real value or use to me outside the Opera House," he said brusquely, brushing his hands together dismissively and smiling slightly at the obviously relieved Christine.

She smiled back, then cast her eyes over the emptier room. Her expression turned sombre as she noted all of the many items which had to be abandoned. No matter what Erik said, Christine knew that some things were left as a matter of necessity- the mirrors, the vast majority of the artwork and books, the organ…

It seemed that Erik was definitely of the same mind when it came to his beloved instrument; he had swung around as the faint sound of distant horse hooves approached the cavern, as if the appearance of Madame Giry leading Cesar would finally separate him from this place forever. He stepped lightly but sorrowfully towards the organ, stripped bare of its manuscript wallpaper, and ran a tender, ungloved hand across its ivory keys. Erik turned and glanced back at Christine, who smiled sadly. With this encouragement, the man settled himself comfortably upon the stiff wooden stool, flexed his fingers and began to play.

Christine didn't know how she would classify this music, what emotion she could connect to the crashing chords and the rich melody pouring from the pipes. Erik was improvising, she could tell that from the way he hung his head as he played, no need to keep an eye on the keys, to perfect harmonies or synchronisation. He looked so comfortable, at ease, one with the music- clichéd as that sounded. And yet it was sad. The musician was being torn from his instrument. This was a funeral dirge for a lifelong companion as much as anything else.

Cesar snorted softly from the space behind Christine's shoulder, and she jumped slightly, having lost focus on anything but the man and his music. She turned to find Madame Giry gazing solemnly at the organ, and knew that the woman understood Erik's compulsion.

When the final note died away across the lake and Erik slumped slightly in his seat, Madame Giry and Christine clapped. He didn't turn around at this unexpected applause, and the women soon stopped. Christine felt any remaining traces of a smile die from her lips, and she turned to Cesar in an attempt to give Erik a moment of private reflection. Madame Giry was of the same mind, and the pair spent quite an unusual amount of time fixing the final load of bags into place on Cesar's back.

At last Erik stood and walked out of the room for a moment, leaving Christine to stare at Madame Giry in puzzlement. But then he was back, his arms full of black material. He strode back to the organ, gazed at it one last time and then swept the black cloth over the keyboards, pulling the material into place. Nothing could be done about the pipes, and Christine hoped that if the Inspector did discover this place, he would leave the organ alone.

Madame Giry walked towards Erik, gesturing towards the mirrors lining the walls. "You would not consider donating a couple of these mirrors to the girls' dressing rooms, would you? It's just that they mope and complain so…"

Erik nodded curtly at Madame Giry, and Christine glanced at the mirrors herself. Most were still covered with odd bolts of cloth, some dusty, some more recently disturbed. It appeared that Erik had left them all, something which puzzled her a little; judging from the array throughout his rooms, mirrors seemed like a vital item to the man. The fact that he wasn't taking one into his new life intrigued her.

Was it a good sign, an indicator that he felt more confident with his appearance nowadays, with less of a need to punish himself? Christine hoped so.

She felt a sudden pang of loss and sadness as she was reminded of the mirror in her dressing room, of the vital role it had played in their lives. Erik would no longer watch her, hidden behind the blank panels of two-way glass. Christine supposed she should be relieved by this fact, but somehow she felt upset. So much mystery and fantasy would be removed from her life. As indecent as it all was, it had been an integral part of the pair's bizarre relationship for years.

Christine wondered if she could even bear visiting the chapel after Erik left, mourning for something other than her father.

"Oh, come now," Madame Giry breathed softly into her ear, having abandoned her inspection of the mirrors. "He is not dead, after all. You'll be able to visit him quite easily."

Christine flushed, not having realised the fact that she was displaying her emotions so obviously. She glanced back up and met Erik's eye. She couldn't hold on to her feelings of wretchedness when the man was looking so infuriatingly pleased at her reaction.

"Aren't we just about ready to leave?" she asked flatly, unwilling to give her companions another moment to tease her.

Madame Giry shook her head and moved away, stepping towards Cesar, who was waiting patiently by the entrance to the tunnel. "I daresay we are, Christine, and I will be waiting for you two outside with the carriage." With that, she left the cavern, Cesar trotting dutifully behind her.

Once she had gone, the atmosphere felt more gloomy immediately. Erik merely stood and gazed around at the place he was being forced to abandon, no doubt imagining it all being ripped to pieces by the snarling teeth of packs of dogs. Christine tried her best to avoid these thoughts herself, and uncomfortably allowed Erik his moment.

After a time, Erik turned his back on his organ and the mirrors, and, fixing his cloak around his shoulders, walked closer to Christine and the tunnel.

"I don't have happy memories of this place," he said suddenly, casting a glance back over his shoulder. "In some ways, I should be grateful for the opportunity to remove myself from it."

Christine didn't know how to respond, and simply looked at him as he gazed across the lake, lost in some thought. As if struck with sudden inspiration, he strode across the shore and heaved the boat inland, dragging it behind the organ and draping it with some of the excess cloth. Turning away, he began to walk back to Christine, then stopped, looking at something slightly behind her to her left.

Puzzled, she turned and searched for whatever might have caught his interest. Nothing jumped immediately to mind, but when Erik approached the wide, drawn velvet curtain, she suddenly understood.

"The mannequin," she muttered, a little horrified, a little wondrous at the thought of Erik dragging the doll bodily to the carriage and setting it up in some cobwebbed corner of her father's tomb.

"The dress," Erik called in response, and Christine's eyes widened further. He was taking the wedding dress- the dress with so many connotations and vaguely frightening (or thrilling) hints.

She didn't know whether she wanted to see the doll which had so overwhelmed her upon her first visit to Erik's home. All she could remember were two glassy eyes set _so familiarly _in a glassy expression, all cold and terrifying and her…

Curiosity overcame her trepidation, however, and Christine moved around so she could easily see the full curtain. Erik had been standing there, hand paused on the drape, uneasy and doubtlessly remembering the reaction his creation had received on the previous occasion.

"Open it," Christine encouraged softly. Her eyes were fixed gingerly upon the curtain, and she felt a little breathless in anticipation of seeing that mannequin again. Erik turned from the curtain, a fold still clutched within his hand, and his eyes found hers. He held her gaze for one wary moment, then slowly turned back and swept it strongly aside.

Christine gasped- she couldn't help it. It was her, her face, her body, motionless and pale and vaguely, sickeningly waxy. But it was beautiful. After that first shock, Christine felt herself calm quickly. After all, she had seen it before, and what intrigued her more at this moment was the way Erik was staring at her now, sizing up her reaction. She ripped her eyes from the glassy, unblinking gaze of her lifeless image and focussed on Erik. She forced her lips into a small smile.

"It's a lovely dress, isn't it?"

Erik bowed his head at her words, obviously relieved by her light response, then straightened himself, turning and beginning to undress the doll quite roughly.

Christine blushed hotly; she couldn't help herself. It was just so easy to imagine Erik removing the clothes from a very alive version of the doll. And he was doing it so casually! She clutched a hand to her red face in despair, hoping that Erik wouldn't turn around until she was able to collect herself.

When he had finally tugged the unfastened dress successfully over the doll's head, Christine only moved her hand from her cheek to her mouth with new shock. Erik had not stopped at the bridal gown, oh no. She wasn't entirely sure, but she could have sworn that some of the remaining lace covering the otherwise naked doll resembled, well, lingerie!

Possibly remembering this fact himself, Erik quickly flung the curtain back so that the doll was hidden once more. Hopefully for good, Christine thought, extremely mortified at the thought of such a mannequin being discovered by the Inspector.

Dress held safely within his arms, Erik turned and walked back towards Christine, deliberately keeping his eyes away from her face. Christine was quite happy with this arrangement; she still felt flushed and strangely giggly. As he placed the dress into a remaining bag, Christine combed her fingers through her hair, making the most of the useful curtain her curls created. Once she felt she had calmed herself sufficiently, she tilted her head back and allowed her hair to fall down her back.

It seemed Erik had been waiting for her, and once she had finished he set off down the tunnel immediately. Christine followed silently, but not before sweeping the lonely cavern with one last bittersweet gaze.

* * *

When the couple finally broke free into the fading light of late afternoon, no time was wasted. The carriage made its swift journey to the cemetery without delay, and without interference from the Inspector, something which Christine was silently grateful for. Madame Giry took the reigns while Christine sat with Erik behind her, shielded slightly by the mountain of belongings surrounding them.

Once Christine had checked the graveyard for visitors, she pulled the heavy gates open, wincing with every creak. It was difficult to direct the carriage safely down the path to the Daaé tomb but finally it was done, and with a small time of daylight to spare.

Madame Giry remained outside with Cesar and the carriage while Christine and Erik approached the mausoleum. Christine felt her heart grow heavier in her chest with every step they climbed.

They fell silently sombre as Christine opened the tomb and lit a candle. She watched as Erik walked reverently inside, back and shoulders straight. It made things less awful, somehow, to see that her father was still respected, even if he had to share his resting place with another man.

"Don't- don't be too lonely," she whispered sadly, and looked up into Erik's steady gaze as he gingerly laid a comforting hand on her arm.

"I am quite used to it," he said quietly, seeming to gain strength from the small hand she placed over his. Christine glanced down to her feet, saddened to the point of tears at the thought of her angel whiling away the long and empty hours in a cemetery.

"You won't be here for long," she said with as much determination as she could muster, trying to comfort herself with the words.

"I will be here for as long as I need to be," he said firmly. Christine felt later, as she sat in the carriage, tears blurring her vision, that it was there, in the cold, dark tomb of her father, that Erik had seemed more strong and self-reassured than she had ever seen him before. And that made her feel much better.

* * *

**A/N: I liked this chapter. Some of it seemed rather disconnected from the main plot, like the doll and the dress, but I felt that it provided another connection between this story and the original. Besides, some things are just nice and easy to write. That's important. And the same things are often good ways to lighten the tone of the story a little.**

**Sorry this chapter wasn't nearly as long as the last; I think we're all going to have to learn to expect that due to scarily near exams. At least they're regular, eh:)**

**Thanks to all my reviewers! It really provides motivation for me. I mean, I enjoy writing the story, obviously, but sometimes it's a little difficult to actually approach the old laptop and remember the plot.**

**-Froody **


	26. Hunt

**A/N: Sorry it's taken longer than usual to get this one out, guys. I'm really busy at the moment as the central focus of my past year, my yr 12 maths exams, are now less than three weeks away. But let's forget about that as we begin the newest chapter! Enjoy.**

* * *

"Now then, girls," Madame Giry said briskly, clapping her hands together once, a habit from teaching ballet to noisome girls- though Meg and Christine were far from inattentive.

It was the morning of a day Christine was still dreading, although she knew that Erik had safely escaped from his underground lair. He had now spent his first night in her father's mausoleum; she wondered how he had passed the hours since she left him there. Christine had been too exhausted to worry last night when Madame Giry had directed her firmly to bed, but since she had risen, she had yearned to ask the man himself.

She would not have an opportunity for that conversation on this day, she was resigned to that much. Today was the day that the Inspector hunted the Opera Ghost, armed with his pack of hounds.

"We must not allow the Inspector to suspect anything at all," Madame Giry began- rather obviously, Christine thought. "If he finds an empty lair and his suspicions fall upon me or you, Christine, then it is not impossible that he will trace Erik to his new position."

Christine gasped; she had not even considered the possibility that the Inspector would continue once his dogs had proven fruitless.

"But how could he think to look in a graveyard?" Meg asked, brows furrowed.

"We used a carriage to transport Erik and his possessions to the cemetery, Meg," Madame Giry sighed. "However improbable, the Inspector could use the dogs to find the carriage. Erik sat in it; his scent would be on it. All the Inspector would have to do then would be to bribe the owner of the carriage and find out that it was I who hired it."

"But you wouldn't tell them, would you, _Maman_?" Meg asked, looking confused at the suggestion.

"Of course I wouldn't, silly girl. Not voluntarily."

Christine shivered as she heard those ominous words, and tried not to think of their dark insinuations. Surely the police would not… but she could not end that thought with a definite statement. The managers of the Opera House were rich and therefore influential men. She didn't know where the law would stop for them.

"How do we avoid such a terrible situation?" she asked, looking directly into Madame Giry's eyes.

"It is quite simple," Madame Giry replied calmly. "Once the underground cavern has been discovered, empty of its former inhabitant, we must convince the Inspector and the managers that he is gone for good. I doubt the managers will want to waste any more time and money on this business than they can help."

Christine forced herself to flatten the boulder of insecurities which had risen within her when Madame Giry had so coolly outlined the possibility of Erik's discovery in her father's tomb. She took a deep breath and nodded.

"Where is the Inspector now?" she asked quietly.

As heavy footsteps were suddenly heard, echoing in the adjacent corridor, the three women looked to each other. Madame Giry pushed Meg and Christine towards a nearby doorway, and Meg gladly slipped through, but Christine knew she had run out of time when the footsteps stopped just metres away.

Christine felt winded, but she planted a blank smile on her face as she slowly turned to face an amused Inspector.

"Going so soon?" he asked brightly, his thick moustache bristling upwards as he smiled, nodding to the two women in recognition.

"We meet again," Madame Giry said coolly, resting her right hand on Christine's tensed left shoulder.

The Inspector stepped forward, fiddling awkwardly with one of the buttons on his coat. Christine knew he was looking at her, and she could barely bring herself to raise her eyes and meet his gaze.

"I'm not a heartless man," he began uncomfortably, starting to pull on his moustache with his spare hand.

Christine nodded very shortly, ducking her head almost imperceptibly.

"Listen- I can understand how much your so-called Angel of Music has meant to you over the years. I also believe that fact is yet another perverted crime of the man we are going to find today, but I don't expect you to agree."

Confused by the warmth in the man's voice, Christine looked up to find unexpected compassion in his eyes. She knew that he must think her to be extremely simple to have accepted such a lie for so many years; but the man was trying to make this easier for both of them. The Inspector expected to end her fantasy in just hours. He didn't truly want to harm this pretty girl unexpectedly caught in the middle of the mysterious affair.

"I must apologise for my harsh words to you upon our last meeting," the Inspector continued, his voice stronger as he realised that Christine was accepting his words. "You should understand that I have been rather frustrated with this particular case for quite some time now- and those managers of yours are not so easy to deal with. Not to mention… some of the other people involved."

The man suddenly stopped embarrassedly, and Christine turned her head slightly to share a small smile with Madame Giry, who had been watching the conversation with a sharp eye. It was obvious that the Inspector had meant the woman herself.

Still Christine said nothing, though she gazed back at the Inspector quite evenly. He finally released his moustache and seemed to deliberately avoid glancing at Madame Giry.

"I just want you to know that when we find the Opera Ghost- Phantom- criminal, we are dealing out justice to a murderer who deserves imprisonment for his crimes. And endless blackmail," the Inspector added, regaining fervour as he settled back into conversation he was doubtlessly well-accustomed to.

"When you put it that way, Monsieur, it really does seem like it is for the best," Madame Giry said smoothly, earning a startled glance from Christine. The woman ignored her confusion as she nodded to a pleased-looking Inspector, who released the button at her words.

"I'm glad that you realise that, my dear woman. I am especially pleased because this means that it won't be so traumatic when I ask the pair of you to join me in the entrance hall. I'm afraid that you are obliged to help us with our search."

The Inspector then offered Madame Giry his arm, and Christine felt obliged to follow the pair as he swept down the corridor, straight-backed and comfortable in his niche.

But what about Meg? Christine craned her neck for a fleeting glance of an empty corridor and felt slightly disappointed. It was up to the combined charm and skills of Madame Giry and her, then. It was a pity; Christine had expected that pretty, dimpled Meg could become quite useful if the managers decided to join the expedition…

She groaned inwardly as they turned the final corner and the ornate entrance hall came into view. Those two men didn't seem able to leave the practical work to the authorities.

"Madame Giry," Monsieur Firmin sniffed as he caught sight of the severe woman. "You were not available for your class this morning?"

"That is correct, Monsieur," Madame Giry said condescendingly, and Christine was almost amused to find that the Inspector's moustache had twitched up again.

Monsieur Firmin harrumphed, but nothing more was said on the matter. There were more important, exciting things to be taken care of that morning.

"The dogs?" Monsieur Andre enquired, gazing sharply at the distracted Inspector.

"Are outside, my dear sir," he replied broadly. "I will send for the man now, if you wish."

Madame Giry looked more traumatised than the managers at the thought of dogs in the distinguished hall, but the ex-tradesmen weren't overly concerned about the finery, nodding their consent.

"How had you decided to track the ghost, then?" she said tightly, attempting to ignore the pack of dogs being led noisily through a side entrance.

The Inspector laughed, releasing her arm and wandering over to the nearest dog, stroking its head comfortably and completely missing Madame Giry's shudder.

"He is more man than that, Madame," he replied cryptically, but not without humour. "I believe the Opera Ghost was fond of his letters."

Monsieur Andre reached inside his expensive jacket and drew out a sheaf of letters with a flourish. Christine exchanged a silent look with Madame Giry. Their Phantom had not been as careful as he should have. He left holes in his security that were more destructive than any trapdoor could be useful.

"Did he not wear gloves?" Christine asked foolishly, without thought. She flinched as she felt Madame Giry's burning glare.

The Inspector nodded with an air of satisfaction. "That is correct, according to many valuable eye witnesses- but the man wore his gloves, and they would still carry his scent."

"We also found these," the man with the dogs suddenly said, walking into the conversation, holding two very familiar items in the hand that was not occupied with thick leather leashes.

A noose- and a black-ribboned rose.

They could not have found two more opposing objects, Christine thought. They came from different men, in her eye- and both were condemned by their presence, here and now.

"The dogs are ready," the man said, smiling narrowly. "Let's get the job done."

* * *

The dogs had been split into two groups in order to cover as much of the Opera House as needed. Madame Giry had been led firmly away by the Inspector with one group, and Christine had been left with only the dog handler and Monsieur Firmin.

The man holding the leashes called the dogs to him and threw the treacherous objects on the ground before them. The hounds sniffed and butted their noses violently against one another as they battled for best position. Christine felt faint as she saw the rose crushed beneath numerous paws. These were not delicate creatures.

She wondered if they had been trained to kill once their prey had been found. She was eternally grateful to Madame Giry for her inquisitiveness.

The three of them set off after the impatient hounds, leads straining terribly. Christine wondered at the strength of their handler, who appeared to be quite calm and in control of the dogs. She wondered how the Inspector was faring with his lot, and whether Madame Giry was any easier to lead peacefully through the corridors than a pack of hounds.

She had a considerable amount of time to wonder about things, mostly to do with Erik and how he was faring in the cemetery; the dogs were certainly not taking the shortest route to Erik's domain, if indeed that was where they were being led.

"They seem a little confused, Monsieur," she finally said, a little weary at the endless pace of the dogs. "We have been up and down this staircase twice now."

Christine had the feeling that the dog handler was deliberately ignoring her words, and she could only sigh as they began the circuit once more. Then she began to occupy herself by staring curiously at every passing tapestry and mirror, certain that an entrance to Erik's passages must be hidden behind some unexpected nook or cranny.

Thankfully, it seemed that neither Monsieur Firmin or the dog handler had any similar suspicion, and Christine could soon feel that their impatience was building too.

Finally the dog handler reined in the dogs, frustration in his eyes, and conferred quietly with Monsieur Firmin a few metres from Christine. She felt quite relieved when she was informed that they were to return to the entrance hall and wait for news from the other group.

Upon walking from a short corridor into the hall, they were surprised to find that they had been beaten back. Madame Giry had somehow procured a chair and was lounging on it, arms crossed smugly across her chest, while the Inspector made an interesting contrast as he paced up and down the marble floor. The hounds were secured firmly by leash to the nearby balustrade, and they barked viciously as their companions joined them.

"No sign, I take it?" the Inspector asked tiredly as the three walked in, and Monsieur Firmin held out his empty palms in response.

"Nothing at all, Inspector. And I was so easily reassured that the dogs would solve our problem."

"Oh, the hunt has just begun," the Inspector replied easily. "It often takes a considerable time to track criminals with a talent for hiding themselves away. And the Opera House isn't exactly the smallest place to search through, either."

Monsieur Andre's moustache bristled dangerously at this, and he glared at the Inspector as he spoke. "This is a place of the arts, Monsieur! We cannot risk the dogs ruining our prestigious reputation by remaining here for long!"

Christine glanced towards the staircase and just caught herself before she smiled sardonically. If the managers could bare tying dogs to the marble staircase in one of the most ornamented rooms of the Opera House, she was amazed they felt any consideration for the reputation of the place at all.

"It is the dogs or the ghost, Messieurs," the Inspector said brusquely. The managers muttered darkly to each other as they excused themselves from the small group. Christine felt herself relax a little as she watched their retreating backs stalk pompously away. She turned back to the Inspector as she heard him clear his throat importantly.

"You can see how pointless this exercise could turn out to be if we do not all cooperate," he said pointedly, looking from one woman to the other with severity in his eyes. "If there is any information you have neglected to give me as to the man's whereabouts, I must insist that you tell me now."

Christine brightened in the uncomfortable silence that followed these words as sudden inspiration struck her. She looked to Madame Giry, but the woman had averted her eyes from those of the others and was inspecting the opposite wall. Christine turned her gaze back to the Inspector to find that he had seen her suspicious action, and nerves bit at her stomach as she prepared herself to speak.

"He has truly left this place, Monsieur Inspector," she said softly, drawing Madame Giry's attention immediately back to the conversation.

Christine swept all tremors and uncertainties about her person firmly away, and adopted a sweet, lilting tone as she called on her dramatic talents and faced her waiting companions. Attempting to look as simple-minded and innocent as possible, she widened her eyes and gazed to the ceiling.

"My Angel came to me yesterday evening in the chapel. He told me that he had been called back to Heaven. I had been in mourning for too long, he said, and now I am released from the bonds of grief. He said- he said that there were others to be cared for now. He is not coming back."

She lowered her eyes reverently and was rather pleased to see such an honest look of pity on the Inspector's face. It was all too obvious that he thought she was damaged in some way, to believe such stories at her age- but she could see in his eyes that he also felt her to have told the truth.

Or, at least, the truth as she had been told.

He coughed delicately into a thick hand, trying to dispel some of the uneasiness the situation reeked of, and avoided looking at Christine as she willed tears into her eyes.

"Is there... any proof that he has gone for good?" he eventually asked, the lack of hope clearly registering in his strained voice.

"Yes," Christine answered firmly, beaming to herself as Madame Giry's eyes widened further. She had enjoyed watching the effect her performance had on the Inspector, but Madame Giry's reaction was really quite amusing.

They left the dogs and their racket with the surly handler, a spring in the incredulous Inspector's step as they began in a direction that the dogs had failed to negotiate that morning. Christine's stomach tightened as she led the way, secretly hoping that she had not forgotten the way. If she had, and she couldn't show the Inspector what she meant to, she was sure that the search would never end.

Finally Christine knew they were almost there; she recognised the cheap decorations, the faded look of the sun-bleached corridor. She could feel two different sets of eyes on the back of her head. She looked forward and saw a familiar oak door set into an otherwise plain wall, and felt relief sweep over her.

Her hand shook slightly as she reached for the handle- she could only hope that Erik had left it unlocked again…

The handle turned easily and the door swung open. The sunlight raced into the corridor like it had the first time she had come here. Christine was set aside quite rudely before she could enter the room, and she was rather indignant when her view was blocked by the bulk of the Inspector in the doorway.

"_Mon Dieu_," he said hoarsely as he absorbed the sight. "What a place…"

Madame Giry pushed Christine gently through the doorway and gazed around with considerable astonishment herself once they were inside. It was clear to Christine that she had never been here, and had probably never dreamed of such a place connected to the dark and mysterious Erik. His workshop was too alive with sunlight and dust for his persona, but it was undoubtedly his.

Christine allowed her gaze to wander over the room she had not visited since that one time, and was pleased to see the state of disorder, drawers hanging out, swathes of material on the floor- even the strong scent of the wilting roses was reassuring to her.

"He has really gone, hasn't he?" the Inspector said to himself, shaking his head as he took in the few remaining bundles of money lying carelessly on top of a bench. "No criminal would leave their sanctuary open for viewing if they planned to stay."

Madame Giry nodded silently at his words, looking at Christine with questions in her eyes.

"But where has he gone?" the Inspector said, frowning. With that, he switched his gaze behind him and looked directly into Christine's eyes. She felt that he was sizing her up. He stepped towards a shadowy bench, heaped with the recognisable loops of rope that Christine remembered from her previous visit. A chill ran through her as the Inspector fingered a noose thoughtfully, and raised his eyes slowly to look straight at her.

"I feel that you know more than you have told me. And now, mademoiselle, we will see if the dogs will help to loosen that tongue of yours."

Madame Giry flung a hand to her cheek in horror as Christine froze completely at this unexpected turn of events. She could already see the dogs chasing her, feral, foaming at the mouth. She felt faint.

The Inspector laughed, and both women went white with fury as they realised that he had been joking.

"Just pulling your legs, my dear ladies!" he chortled, and Christine, her heart galloping, had to reach out an arm to restrain Madame Giry, who was looking murderous.

"No, if the man's gone then he's gone, and that's that. I'll be able to remove the dogs and the managers will be able to congratulate themselves on a task well done."

Madame Giry frowned at him, though whether it was confusion or disapproval for his lack of professionalism, Christine did not know. She was a little surprised herself that the Inspector was so willing to accept the disappearance of a criminal without an extended investigation.

The man must have read the questions in their eyes, for he became more serious as he swept his eyes back over the scattered contents of the room. "Once I have informed the managers of this place and its missing occupant, I am sure that they will conduct a further search of the room and perhaps even install a permanent guard. I am, however, quite certain that this is all that's left of the beaten Phantom."

While the man's back was turned, Christine looked to Madame Giry, and smiled as the proud woman shook her head in astonishment.

* * *

**A/N: Ah, the plot-continuing chapters. Not as fulfilling as the fluff chapters, but necessary all the same. Hopefully I haven't left too many holes myself- do point them out if you feel the need to, it's always possible to repair the worst things in the next chapter. :) Trust me, I know.**

**Erik will reappear next time- I know you guys miss him. Heck, I miss him. I'm guessing that he is most of the reason you actually love this phandom, and the story. Unless you love the Inspector. In which case you would have enjoyed this chapter.**

**Thanks for reading and please leave me a comment, it really helps, especially when I need emails to distract me from piles of work. **

**-Froody**


	27. Visit

* * *

Erik closed his eyes as a sardonic smile twisted his lips. He leant back against the hard, cobweb-strewn wall of the mausoleum, legs crossed stiffly, the black shine of his shoes appearing outlandish next to the dull grey of the floor.

Christine, her hands on her hips, studied the uncomfortably positioned man before her. The situation felt a little bizarre itself, the place so far removed from the rich atmosphere of the Opera House, herself and the Phantom so far removed from within it, and within their old roles. What was she here, now? Where did she stand?

It was no longer Angel of Music and reverent believer, nor Phantom and ballet rat- no, it wasn't even student and teacher, here in the morbid- yet somehow _mundane_- tomb of her father.

No, she thought wryly; her mysterious, ghostly Angel would never have sat on the dusty floor of a cluttered, chilly mausoleum. Erik's position was probably what had thrown her the most as she had carefully slipped inside, glancing fearfully behind her to check for the curious eyes of other visitors.

Had the romance disappeared?

Christine blinked and almost blushed at that thought. No, not the romance- she was sure that the familiar, wonderful breathless moments would never disappear when she was near Erik. But the haunting, romantic atmosphere, the music, the danger, the mystery- it was all gone.

Well, mostly, she thought, gazing slowly around at the four close walls of the tomb, trying not to look at the imposing stone coffin in the corner that she had so far managed to avoid thinking about. The danger was alive and well. Christine had managed to slip past the old guard stationed outside the Opera House since the excitement of the previous day, but only with the help of a reluctant Meg Giry. Christine knew it was slightly shameful, and would not have told Madame Giry for the world, but she exploited the dimpled charm of the young dancer quite as easily as Meg often did herself.

And as for the music and the mystery- well, they still had their voices, and Christine was sure that Erik had packed a number of small woodwind instruments along with the old violin somewhere inside the small mausoleum.

The man was still the mystery. Christine still felt she was unlikely to ever know what she yearned to about Erik's past.

Her eyes gradually fell back to the man, sitting cross-legged against the wall in a bizarrely casual manner, and she flushed slightly when she realised that he had been watching her.

"We have fortune to thank for the wonderful intelligence and wisdom bestowed upon our honourable managers." He kept his sardonic smile, shaking his head in mock despair. "But to call off the dogs after a four hour search! And it took such effort to re-establish myself in this cemetery!"

Christine did not smile. "It is not so simple, Erik. The Inspector has repeatedly warned the managers of the possibility of your return, and you must know that the dogs would simply be on call. The room that I showed to them-"

"Demonstrating a most remarkable intelligence, I must say," he interrupted, his smile relaxing into something akin to pride.

She lowered her eyes bashfully, still relieved that Erik had not been angered by her revelation of his private workplace. It had been the only solution that Christine had been able to come up with to dissuade the managers from their search. She had felt a touch of pride herself when her plan had succeeded so readily.

"I will not return to live under the Opera House," Erik said suddenly, drawing her eyes back to his, and she felt a small thrill at the intensity of his searching gaze. "That time is over. I will have to establish myself in some other place."

Christine felt a wave of uncertainty wash though her, but she couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the sudden insecurity. Could it be from those dark, stormy eyes before her?

"Let them waste their lives searching for that dank, miserable cellar of mine. I have no further need for it."

He dropped his gaze, and Christine knew. Whether it was denial or self-pity or some sense of hopelessness forbidding his vast intelligence to formulate a new plan for the new life the man was being forced into, he didn't know what he was to do.

Stepping carefully over a small pile of books, Christine placed her small hand comfortingly on Erik's bowed shoulder and gingerly slid down beside him, wrapping her legs under herself a little awkwardly. She silently hoped that the dust carpeting the stone floor would somehow avoid the dark material of her dress, but without much optimism.

She craned her neck around, trying to see past the lowered, white mask to the weary face of the other side.

"Christine," Erik said quietly, turning his head away from her searching eyes.

"Erik," she replied with a sigh, giving up her attempt and allowing her head to bump jarringly against the wall behind her.

"Would you like to know the reason for my insomnia last night?" he asked unexpectedly, still faced towards the dark corner of the room.

Christine turned her head slowly in his direction once more, curiosity overcoming the frustration she felt at her inability to see Erik's face. Of course he was tired. He was leaning against a wall, for goodness sake, looking less groomed (and more haggard) than she had seen him before. And yes, she wanted to know.

Erik took her silence as the affirmative. "All I could think of was my organ, gathering dust under that material. All I could think of were the mirrors, nailed to the ugly walls of the practise room, reflecting skinny girls in their leotards with painted smiles. All I could think of were those paintings, and those books I had to leave behind."

"They are still there, Erik," Christine said softly, eyes filling with compassion. For all his previous brave talk, letting go of his lifetime under the Opera House was painful.

"All I could think of were those two blasted managers and that Inspector drinking tea in their office, chortling at their success!" Erik growled, destroying the bittersweet atmosphere his previous words had provided.

Christine frowned slightly, but then relaxed. He had to direct his anger and sense of loss at someone.

"I will no longer be able to give you roses, Christine," he said sadly, seeming to abandon the vengeful wrath in favour of a renewed depression.

Christine was smiling softly when he eventually turned his head back towards her, blue eyes looking puzzled at her lack of response. She was pleased now. Their heads were close. She could feel the gentle movement of air against her face when he breathed.

"But there are so many flowers available here," she said light-heartedly, gesturing to the closed door of the mausoleum.

Erik shook his head slightly, eyes serious as he answered. "I did not think you would appreciate flowers previously offered to the dead."

"You were correct," Christine said in mock horror, then gently laughed, leaning her head on Erik's shoulder. She could feel his surprise as his shoulder tensed. Even now, when they had been so close, touch scared him.

They sat like that for a while, both lost in their individual thoughts, twin looks of gloom upon their faces. It was only when Christine noticed that the light bordering the door's edges had faded considerably that she lifted her head with a sigh, ruffling her flattened curls with a weary hand.

Erik had not moved when she had, and Christine turned to look at him, almost expecting to find that he had fallen asleep during their time of quiet. But no, she should have known. He would never allow himself to sleep in her presence.

It was a pity, she thought with an inward sigh; she had a feeling he didn't allow himself to sleep nearly enough.

"Will you be able to rest tonight?" she asked quietly, her worried eyes searching his. Despite his fatigue, his eyes looked as clear as they always were, and she felt vaguely hurt when his eyebrows drew slightly with something akin to irritation.

"Time will tell, my dear," he answered dismally, before pulling himself wearily to his feet. He offered her a glove, and she gratefully accepted, letting him take some of her weight as she stood up.

"If you would like," Christine began, brushing her hands absently against her crumpled skirt, "I could go to your cavern and remove more of your books and paintings for you."

Erik answered with one cynical, sweeping gesture, waving his arm at the cluttered room around them.

Christine looked heavenward. "I would put them in my dressing room, of course," she continued, smiling slightly.

"I would appreciate that," Erik said gravely, nodding thoughtfully. "Take those which you believe I'd want in your care."

Nodding, Christine wondered what he expected her to keep. As Erik escorted her to the door in a manner more formal than she would perhaps wish, she decided that she would complete that mission as soon as possible.

The sooner Erik could become less preoccupied, the better.

* * *

**A/N: And back to Erik and Christine! And a surprising lack of fluff. Erik really does need sleep. :) Sorry it's a little shorter than chapters have been- but the countdown has begun. Ten days till my big big BIG exam. (Well, the first one.) For the same reason, updates might be a little sluggish for a few weeks.**

**Thanks for the positive response to the previous chapter- I'm glad you liked it so much, even with the absence of Erik! And seeing new reviewers latch onto my story is really exciting, so a special thanks to those guys (and I hope you're still reading. :)) **

**And to all you wonderful regulars- you know you rock. **

**Thanks guys!**

**-Froody **


	28. Errand

It seemed to Christine that her muscles had forgotten the old familiar ache that came with Madame Giry's gruelling practise sessions. She felt that she had been dancing for days rather than hours. The short cramps that were racing up her calves appeared to be reprimanding her for a lack of practise, an unfortunate accompaniment to Madame Giry's own admonishments.

Christine knew that her particular circumstances could not be catered for so obviously, and she understood that the severe ballet mistress was not the type to be careless- yet she still felt a twinge of tired frustration at the rather humiliating way she had been reproached for her lack of practise. When was she supposed to find the time or energy to spend hours at the _barre_, stretching and cajoling her muscles into achieving the strived-for flexibility? She had never been a dancer; she had never aspired to be a dancer. When she had come to the Opera House she had been given little choice in the matter, taken under the wing of Madame Giry- and she had never sought to promote the hidden talent of her voice. Her Angel had understood its potential, but only through eavesdropping on the mourning young girl as she knelt in the small chapel to sing for her father.

As far as she knew, her vocal skills had never been of interest to anyone else in the Opera House before she had suddenly been thrust into her understudy role just weeks ago. Perhaps Madame Giry had suspected the (less obvious) cause for Erik's interest, but Christine believed that she had never been heard outside of the chorus before that occasion.

Although she had been rather proud of her dancing efforts in _Hannibal_, she could not pretend that the feeling of satisfaction hadn't equalled the apprehension she had felt at leaving the chorus. Christine had known that her voice was better than Meg's, and could not ignore her Angel's special attentions, but being properly recognised for her talent for the first time had been a truly gratifying experience. She had always felt her dancing ability was inferior to that of the other chorus girls. After her triumphant performance she had felt a pride and self-worth that she had lacked for so long.

And now that Carlotta had reclaimed the role of prima donna at the Opera House, it seemed that the beauty of Christine's voice had been forgotten. It was as if her years of training with her Angel had never happened.

Suddenly Christine realised just how much Erik had provided for her career, her future. He may have used some rather uncharitable measures to uproot Carlotta in an effort to reveal Christine's talent, but it had done just that.

She wondered if she had enough ambition to remind the company of her recent success, and push herself a little further. She had always known that she had relied on her Angel for many things; now she hoped that she could find similar strength in herself.

Clenching her hands as her weary knees battled the long staircase to her dormitory, Christine knew that it was not a dancing role that would bring her future happiness.

Her face broke into a relieved grimace as she finally reached the door, and she turned the handle triumphantly, groaning slightly as she stumbled over the threshold. Thankfully Meg was the only occupant of the room; it was a Sunday, and most of the other girls were visiting their families.

"However did you manage to get here so quickly?" Christine cried, one hand firmly planted on the stitch in her side.

In response, Meg lifted a leg and gestured to the angry sores reddening her foot. "Three hours a day of solitary practise, _ma chérie_. Three hours of pain and suffering."

Christine's eyes widened, and she stepped closer to Meg's raised foot, examining the blisters with sympathy. "Your mother's suggestion?"

Meg shook her head emphatically, blonde hair sliding smoothly over her back. "_Maman_ doesn't know. I don't think that my practise is showing yet. When it does, I want it to be a surprise."

Christine nodded slowly, massaging her aching muscles as she sank onto an adjacent bed. "She will be very proud," she said with certainty, smiling softly at Meg, who dropped her leg and grinned back.

"She had better be," she laughed, grimacing playfully as she began to slide her stockings over her sore toes. "And what about you, Christine? Will you join me in my efforts tomorrow morning?"

Thinking of her previous reflections, Christine shook her head. "I think that I might devote my time to other activities."

"Like what?" Meg asked coyly, her narrowed eyes filled with cheeky suggestion.

Flushing, Christine glared at her friend, then sighed dramatically. "I believe that my time would be better spent practising singing."

Meg nodded, suddenly reflective as she stared across the room to the rows of empty beds. "It would be, Christine. Your voice could bring you a wonderful career."

Christine smiled and hoped that it would.

* * *

Oh, how could she have forgotten a candle? Where were Erik's flickering torches lining the dank walls? The Phantom's affinity with the eerie flare of a thousand candles suddenly attracted warm and welcoming connotations in Christine's mind.

Once she had felt she had recovered sufficiently to tackle staircases once more, Christine had decided to follow through with the promise she had made to Erik on the previous day. She would go to his abandoned lair and remove whatever books and paintings seemed most precious to their owner. She didn't know what else she could do to provide Erik with some peace. He had looked so upset at the prospect of his abandoned possessions that it would surely provide some comfort if he knew they were being cared for.

Unfortunately, Christine's errand had turned into something more sinister. As soon as the mirror had slid shut behind her and the last traces of light had disappeared beneath its blank surface, she had realised that she had been rendered blind by the dark. She had only travelled through these passageways when they were still tended to by their masked inhabitant, torches burning strongly on the stone walls.

Unable to find the lever to grant her a return to the safety of her dressing room, Christine had been left to the darkness around her, only the narrow walls providing her with some bearings.

As she weaved warily down the hard stone passage, hands trailing along the walls on either side, Christine felt a tight fear slowly build behind her chest, oscillating with every quickening heartbeat. She could bear solitude and even the dark on most occasions- but this! She could just picture rats, or spiders, or- the bloated corpse of a victim of the Phantom-

She had to expel that thought from her mind. The Phantom was Erik. Erik was the Phantom. He was the murderer, but she understood him now. She did not understand the darkness that urged him to commit such foul deeds, but she could understand the tortured, wretched individual mind. Here in this black cavern she could almost sense the detached cruelty of eternal solitude- eternal darkness.

Her muffled sob rang out in the emptiness around her. The echoes drew a little calm back into Christine. It would not do to break down in some cobwebbed passage because of a little darkness. For all she knew she could be directly beneath Madame Giry's study. No, it would not do to be rescued by a thoroughly unimpressed Madame Giry just metres from some obvious exit which she had somehow missed.

Slowly, slowly, the drumming in her ears receded as her heart slowed. As soon as she could draw regular breaths, Christine shut her eyes firmly against the nothingness around her and listened with all her might.

There.

She could hear the tiniest, most miniscule sound of water. The augmented nature of the echoes had given Christine a small hope of being near the lake. All she could do was smile into the darkness and be glad that she hadn't walked straight off the bank.

Or tumbled down the stairs. Christine had momentarily forgotten that last obstacle on the way to the lake, and she was extremely grateful for the presence of the steady stone rail that curved steeply with the stairs.

Upon turning the last, black corner, Christine gasped and felt tears of relief prick her eyes as a glow of dim light filtered over the lake. She did not know where the source of light could be, but she was very thankful for whatever crack in the rocks overhead had allowed the outside sun to creep through.

It was with the help of this friendly light that she came upon the small, wooden boat that she had helped Madame Giry carry down those long stairs the previous day at the woman's insistence. Madame Giry had seemed to understand that there would be a need to reach Erik's cavern after the man had departed, and had enlisted Christine's help in transporting a rather rickety boat (which Christine suspected had come from the set of last season's opera.) It had not been an easy job, but now Christine was glad for Madame Giry's foresight.

She dove upon the boat, feeling around gingerly until she came to the small store of candles and matches stored in a greased cloth bag. She squinted determinedly in the little light available until she managed to find and light the wick of two candles. Having completed that necessary task, Christine pushed the boat from the shore, stepped in hurriedly and poled herself across the dark water.

Standing safely in the boat, several metres from the shore, candles lit and balanced carefully at the boat's head, Christine allowed herself a long sigh of relief. She hoped that her efforts would be well received by Erik. Maybe it would even lighten his mood to hear a dramatic account of her perilous journey from her dressing room!

Smiling at this last thought, she pushed through the last few metres of water and braced herself against the jolt, the boat scraping forward onto the pebbly shore of Erik's cavern. Christine stepped lightly off the boat, reaching for a candle and walking immediately across the room to the bookshelves lining the walls. She did not mean to waste time. Visiting this place, empty of its previous occupant, held little joy for her now. Once she had procured a reasonable collection of books and paintings, she was quite happy to leave without delay.

Unfortunately, she now had to face another dilemma: which titles, which authors, were of the most value to their mysterious owner? Christine knew the names of so few writers and playwrights that her own preferences were of no help; all she could do was pull the most worn spines from their dusty positions on the shelves.

As she took a third pile to place in the boat, Christine decided that while these books were taking residence in her dressing room, she might as well take advantage of their presence and read them. Who knows what insight she could possibly find from Erik's literary preferences?

Having taken as many books as she felt she could manage, Christine went to the room that she had once visited, a room that had been filled with replicated images of herself: portraits, paintings, sketches- things which had filled her with a bemused horror but which she knew were precious to Erik.

She suffered from a mixture of feelings when she entered and saw that the room remained largely as it had been when she had first seen it and its amazing contents. Perhaps these objects did not hold the same value to Erik as they had when he had only been able to see and talk to Christine for a distance. Maybe that was a positive sign, that he had been able to accept the true Christine in preference to these copies. Or maybe he had simply left these for fear of frightening her away with a hint of some madness he hadn't yet confronted.

Christine was filled with compassion for the erstwhile lonely artistic genius, and decided that no matter what he had decided, many of these works were too precious to abandon to the dark.

Carefully surveying each portrait and sketch one by one, trying to retain an impartial eye although she could not stop her heart quickening as she passed several rather compromising images of herself, Christine quickly chose those that appeared to be of the highest quality and carried them gingerly to the boat. She was about to leave the room, satisfied with her collection, when her eye caught on one small sketch she had missed on her previous inspection.

It was hastily drawn on a rude scrap of paper, and looked quite unremarkable from a distance; but when Christine drew slowly closer, picking it carefully from its untidy position atop a pile of blank paper, she saw that it was incredibly unique here in this room dedicated to herself.

It was a self-portrait.

It wasn't just a self-portrait: it was a sketch of Erik without his mask on.

Christine gaped silently as she stared at the rough details, the jagged lines of old scars, the odd bulging in the skin, the ragged hair- but mostly the deeply expressive eyes.

Her hands trembled slightly and she folded the scrap of paper tenderly into her bodice. Somehow that one sketch was infinitely more precious to her than all of the others. She felt that the young, naïve, happy expressions lining her portraits could never compare to what gazed from Erik's picture.

She picked up the candle from the bench and went back to the shore, pushing the boat free and hopping inside without hesitation. She had gathered all that which she thought might be precious to Erik- but more importantly, all that was truly precious.

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter, quite overdue- but a little longer! Not up to some of its predecessors, but what can you do? My giant scary maths exams have passed and I am now slightly freer to keep on writing. **

**I apologise if the pace of this story seems to be a little slow and dawdling at the moment, but I really haven't had too much time and I feel that the description has always been a necessary element of this story. Sometimes I feel like it's just a series of vignettes detailing the characters' thoughts and feelings on every teeny thing under the sun, but other times I hope there's slightly more of a point to the story than that. :) **

**The plot actually advances (yay) in the next chapter so be excited!**

**Thanks to all of my lovely, wonderful, scintillating reviewers (oh, that's new!) and enjoy a fun Melbourne Cup Day holiday- although I'm betting that most of you won't know what I'm talking about!**

**-Froody **


	29. Discovered

Christine forgot to be cautious somewhere between her third strenuous journey from the shored boat to her dressing room and the fourth. It seemed that all she could concentrate on was the steady thump of her heart in her ears, the tightness gathering in her ribcage as her breathing slowly became shallower. Her muscles, it appeared, had not forgiven her in the slightest for the pains of the morning, and protested angrily with every wide, curving stair.

Were the books and paintings really all that precious to Erik? That was the question running through Christine's mind as she collapsed against the wall of her dark dressing room, eyelids clenched tightly in exhaustion until she could see stars. So the man couldn't sleep. All right, fair enough, he could be dreary and listless and dull and inattentive to his concerned visitor, but he didn't have to suffer from leg cramps for three days afterwards.

Feeling the beads of sweat near her temples begin to cool, Christine sighed, opening her eyes and pulling back the framed painting she had been clutching to her chest. She looked at it with the frown of an art critic.

It really was a very good piece of art. Not one of Erik's more inspired pieces- Christine could somehow _feel_ the passion pour from certain paintings- but the overall effect was aesthetically pleasing.

Perhaps it was a little too ordinary, lacking the daring originality Christine had come to expect from Erik's compositions in whatever field he had chosen. This painting, with its pastel dancers in their floating blue skirts, was too timid in contrast to the bold, sweeping, swirling, dabbing, swiped statements of those Erik had taken with him to the mausoleum. There had still been a few left, recently rescued by Christine, of this striking variety, now leaning precariously against assorted pieces of furniture around her.

The pretty pastel dancers did not compare. This did not make the painting any less accomplished- or it wouldn't, at least, in anyone else's view.

Christine, still intrigued by the dramatic difference in the style, gazed closer into the painting, examining the dancers themselves. She could now see the detail in the dresses, could almost sympathise with the worn shoes of one. In fact, the faded slippers looked most familiar…

She smiled as she finally saw that which had been obvious, the link that joined this painting to the others. One of the two dancers was her. The memory was faint, clouded by a veil of years, but she could almost remember the name of the opera, could almost hear the music. She had been eleven, and she had been so proud to join Meg on stage. It had made no difference that the girls were placed in the back, squashed close to the velvet curtains for most of the performance. She was performing.

She had known her angel was watching her. She could feel his eyes burning into her skin even then.

Perhaps his style had changed as they had both grown older, Christine mused, staring at the beguiling innocence she saw before her. The music he had sung for her, had asked her to sing for him, certainly had. Things had grown darker as she had matured, become a woman, physically and later, emotionally. Perhaps the marked contrast between the paintings was inspired by the awakening of new emotions, interests, fascinations.

But whose?

Did it reveal something about her, that she found Erik's more recent artwork more admirable? The passion within the paintings certainly intrigued her. They reminded her of the night she had first, finally, met her angel, face to face, or face to mask. She could not clearly recall the music, the songs he had sung to her; she had felt possessed, displaced, like she was swept off in some fantasy, more of a dream than reality. All she could remember was passion, manifested so explicitly in Erik's paintings.

Not this painting, she corrected herself, shifting her thoughts back to what she cradled in her arms. She did not feel that she could connect with this painting.

She jumped, startled and dismayed as the door to her dressing room was suddenly flung open, revealing the unexpected figure of Monsieur Reyer.

Funny, she had been somehow expecting the Inspector. Still, she hoped her situation did not appear as surreptitious as it felt.

"Ah, our _seconda donna_!" Monsieur Reyer trilled, the thin smile on his lips entirely escaping his eyes. "I have been meaning to talk to you all afternoon, but I must have missed you at the chorus practise two hours ago?"

His disapproval radiated from behind his trim moustache. Christine turned her eyes to the floor and tried to think of some excuse for her absence, but somehow she could not seem to tie her thoughts together while this galling man berated her! After a few silent moments, feeling the guilt fade as her irritation became defiance, she looked back to the conductor and was startled to find that his attention had moved to the painting clenched in her white knuckles.

A cold ache of dread rushing through her throat, Christine attempted to drag the painting back in to her chest, away from view, but Monsieur Reyer had never been one for patient courtesy. He removed the framed work deftly from Christine's fingers before she could stop him, and held it out before him. She could do nothing but stare in mute apprehension as the man examined the painting closely, wandering distractedly into the brighter light of the corridor behind him.

Christine darted after him, breathless as her mind whirred fruitlessly- but no excuses or explanations were churned out. How could she explain her possession of the painting? Surely she could not say it was her work, for she could never have afforded the materials to create the painting. Meals and board were accompanied by a meagre salary for a lowly chorus girl at the Opera House, and most of the money earned was needed to buy new dancing shoes. But she could never name the true artist, or explain how she came to be holding the painting, all alone in a darkened dressing room.

"However did you come by this magnificent painting?" Monsieur Reyer finally asked, eyes still fixed upon the pastel images before him.

Panic shot through Christine as the damning question was finally asked. However, her lack of response did not seem to deter the supercilious conductor; his attention seemed entirely focussed on the painting.

"I do not recognise the costumes," he muttered, almost to himself, one long finger prodding the air above the canvas. "That is our stage, however. And that- is that Meg Giry? And yourself, Mademoiselle!"

His eyes finally lifted from the painting and he stared enquiringly at Christine, who nodded slowly in affirmation, wringing her fingers desperately behind her back.

"That opera was performed around five years ago, Monsieur," she said finally, trying to distract the conductor's thoughts from dangerous areas. "I believe that you came here only three years ago, and would therefore be unfamiliar with the costumes."

Monsieur Reyer nodded, satisfied with that explanation for the moment, gazing back to the painting itself and tracing the images with his bony finger. Christine stood behind him, almost twitching, feeling an urge to grab the framed canvas, remove it from his meticulous inspection.

"Wait a moment." Monsieur Reyer stuck his index finger into the air, beckoning Christine to come closer with the arrogant ease of the stringent conductor that he was.

Christine acquiesced with a slight feeling of unease at this unexpected summons. When she stood close enough to see the painting from over the man's narrow shoulder, she focussed on what lay beneath Monsieur Reyer's pointing finger:

_Erik._

He had left his signature. But surely- surely nobody else knew of the Opera Ghost's proper name, nobody except her and the Giry's. Surely Monsieur Reyer could not understand the implications of the name, the signature, printed so neatly in the left corner of the painting. He couldn't realise the enormity of that signature's presence in the arms of Christine Daaé.

"That handwriting seems quite familiar," Monsieur Reyer said ponderously; it was clear that he was now inescapably interested in the identity of the mysterious artist.

Christine felt a true fear knotting itself in her stomach. How many letters had the man been shown, damning letters stained with a violent crimson ink, threats and blackmail scratched out in that same familiar handwriting of the painting's signature? Would Monsieur Reyer see that the same hand had signed both compositions, one adorned with the cold _O.G._, one written by a man?

No. It seemed that the man did not recognise the handwriting, familiar though it was. Luck was on Christine's side. She didn't bother to breath a sigh of relief.

"Who did you say was the artist?"

Christine breathed through her nose for a moment, and then threw on a casual tone, relaxed her posture with some effort.

"A friend, a little-known artist. He is fascinated by the opera, especially the elaborate costumes of the dancers. I am the model for his artwork."

There. Quite a tidy explanation; she was pleased with herself.

Monsieur Reyer looked rather impressed, a fact which dug itself into Christine's nerves; the haughty conductor had never given the chorus girl a second glance for all her vocal talent, but now it seemed he was impressed by her passive achievements through another's talent!

"It is a marvellous painting," he murmured, voice clouded with contemplation. "Tell me," he said, turning to look into Christine's wary eyes. "Has the man produced many such works?"

Christine nodded silently, wondering what kind of awful hole she was digging for herself now. Erik's genius had proven troublesome in the Opera House even after the musical prodigy had left his awed domain. She twisted her fingers, knotting and bending until her knuckles cracked, as Monsieur Reyer's eyes filled with an intrigued aspiration.

"I don't know whether you were aware of it, but my brother, Gaston Reyer, is a rather prolific art dealer," Monsieur Reyer said calmly, long fingers wound tightly around the painting as he adopted the manner of a crafty tradesman. Christine felt a little calmer herself as she finally began to understand the conductor's true concerns.

"Is he, Monsieur?" she asked wide-eyed, adopting a faintly childish tone. She felt that she should play along to this whim; she wanted to continue distracting Monsieur Reyer from the dangerous truth.

"Yes, indeed." Monsieur Reyer looked pleased with Christine's apparent interest in this matter; she could almost see the man begin to inwardly congratulate himself on a successful enterprise. "When I discover a new talent, I feel bound to send a sample to my brother." His eyes glowed, moustache bristling with promise. "If my brother deems the painting worthy, he offers to buy, this work and others in its stead. You must understand that there is a lot to be made from such a business."

Christine sucked in her breath. Money. A potentially safe, legal, steady source of money. Erik's paintings could buy them a new freedom.

Freedom from dependence on the Phantom's black past.

She hated to part with any object carrying an attachment to Erik, but it seemed that Fate, or opportunity, had decided.

It wasn't too hard to finalise the deal; the painting was already firmly grasped within Monsieur Reyer's arms, all that was further required was her own signature on a bit of paper. The conductor did not seem overly concerned that the artist was not available to give his own, personal consent; Christine had the impression that he believed this was an opportunity not to be missed, not for all the protocol in the world.

Once the man had left, a jaunty step livening his exit, Christine wandered wearily back into her dressing room and slid into the closest chair. She held one hand to her head as she gazed at the frames of other paintings leaning against her walls. She felt a rather strange combination of pride and dismay, but tried to reassure herself that there had really been no other choice.

All in all, it had been an arduous day.

She wondered what Monsieur Reyer would do if he found true examples of Erik's artistic genius. She could only imagine his excitement.

* * *

**A/N: I really haven't seen many impressions of Monsieur Reyer in phanphic, so it was really quite an amusing task to give him a bit of character in my story. We're not given much of an insight into the long-suffering conductor in the book/musical/movie, so I felt like I could take certain liberties. **

**Incidentally, the name of his brother, Gaston, came to me after listening to the _Beauty and the Beast_ soundtrack on my ipod all the way home on the tram. That's really not what makes this interesting, but all the time I was listening to those songs, I just kept thinking how closely that classic fairytale and POTO are related. It's like the POTO musical is the grown-up version of the Disney movie in some respects… but our beast is infinitely better (or worse, I suppose) looking. :) Not to mention more violent. **

**Oh, and I think Gaston is an absolutely hilarious character.**

**Big clap and cheer to my wonderful reviewers (and to you un-fully-recognised readers who decide to follow the story silently. Shame. :)) **

**Hope you liked this one! The Beast returns in the next instalment…**

**-Froody **


	30. Money

The sun was dull on the bare tree branches lining the path of the cemetery. Only small, grey patches of snow were left clumped by the walls, but the air was still icy and Christine shivered as gusts of wind tore past her exposed neck. Her carriage waited outside the gates and it seemed that the cold had dissuaded other visitors from venturing outside- but Christine welcomed the solitude. It made this whole business so much easier; besides, she knew that she would not be alone for long.

However, when she reached her father's mausoleum, throat tightening in what was becoming a familiar mix of emotions, Christine found that she had been wrong. She was still alone, even when she creaked open the door after knocking had elicited no response.

Christine peered with a touch of concern into the silent darkness, blinking as her eyes adjusted. There was no crouched figure leaning wearily against a wall, no white mask gleaming in the scarce light. Hand still clutching the door, she turned around to glance around the desolated cemetery grounds.

She could not imagine where he could have gone. To her knowledge he had been hidden resolutely within the mausoleum walls for his entire venture outside the Opera House. It had soothed her to think of the safety he would be enjoying, far from searching eyes. But now… Where could he have gone? She could only think that he mustn't have been expecting her. Or maybe the cloaking greyness of the dull afternoon had tempted the man from his claustrophobic residence.

After her fruitless scanning of the surrounds, Christine slipped back inside the tomb and hunted for a candle amongst the towering piles of Erik's possessions. She lit it with a thankful sigh of relief and closed the door, wary of creating unwanted interest from a curious passer-by.

The candle gripped tightly within her hand, she gazed around for somewhere to sit and wait for Erik. There were no chairs, not even a bed- something which suddenly caught Christine's attention. Wherever did he sleep? Did he sleep?

Eventually she decided to sit on the floor, dusty though she was sure it had to be. Madame Giry had taken her cobwebbed dress without comment two days beforehand, when Christine had awkwardly asked how to clean it, but she wasn't sure she was willing to repeat that experience regularly.

Christine could feel herself growing impatient, irritated by the state of affairs she was in. She knew that there was no other way to arrange things at the moment, but she was sick of the insecurity in her life, the dependence she had on others. She wanted Erik to be here, to remind her of the necessity of this dreadful situation. It was all she could do to stop her eyes from wandering helplessly to that dark corner, empty but for a large coffin. The flame of the candle flickered jaggedly as Christine's hands began to tremble with emotion.

How could he leave her all alone with her father's body?

She splayed the fingers of her free hand across her face as she tried to banish these dark thoughts from her mind, shaking her head resolutely. Her eyes peered from between her trembling fingers, fixing themselves on the door. They widened as she suddenly caught sight of a bag overflowing with money, notes piled gingerly above a spilled river of glimmering coins. This was a useful distraction indeed.

The most pressing reason for today's visit was to tell Erik of his success, the accidental discovery of his artwork. Christine wasn't entirely sure what to expect; she had no idea what the volatile artist's reaction would be. But the promise of an honest income had overcome the worst of Christine's trepidation. Fair, earned money, untainted by murder, blackmail or threats. The idea of such things filled her with happiness.

On an impulse, Christine pushed away from the wall and carefully stepped over to the pile of money. Glancing only once to the motionless door beside her, she put the candle next to the bag and began to stuff handfuls of money into her bodice, ignoring the discomfort produced by the scratchy notes. She had sense enough to leave the coins, but took paper money until she knew that to take more would become uncomfortably obvious. She knelt back once finished, gazing at the deflated sack with a strange feeling of elation.

Erik had no need of the money, really, she reassured herself, sweeping her hand carefully around her neckline to check that no stray notes were peeping out. Between herself and Madame Giry, he had been assured of enough food to last for months. Christine brought a basket of bread and cheese on visits like today's; indeed, he was probably catered for more richly than when he was residing beneath the Opera House.

And apart from food, what could one really need thousands of francs for? Christine blushed a little as she remembered Erik tearing his wedding dress from the doll in his cavern. Even such needs as that were taken care of. And as soon as Monsieur Reyer's brother sent a payment for that painting, everything else would be available for the couple once more.

Her conscience settled considerably by her logic, Christine sat back in her corner and continued to wait, prodding her chest occasionally as embarrassing thoughts began to pull at her. What if he noticed her sudden growth?

Soon, however, she was distracted from such matters as the door finally creaked open, a familiar black glove calming Christine's racing heart. He swept inside, showing no surprise when he finally turned to her, pulling the door shut behind him.

"A guest!" he said with a mocking smile, making Christine laugh. She was relieved to find his spirits greatly restored. She leant over and picked up the candle hurriedly, suddenly remembering that it had been left in the corner, spilling light over evidence that she would prefer to explain in her own time. Erik held out his hand and Christine gave it to him, watching as he placed it securely in a holder. She knew that a lamp resided somewhere amidst the chaos of the room, but understood that the erstwhile Phantom enjoyed the odd candle.

Christine arranged her legs in a tidier position as she beckoned for Erik to sit beside her. However, he declined her invitation, reaching instead to help her to her feet. Christine was unsure what he was planning, and so merely stood there, turning questioning eyes to his blasé face.

"Where have you been?" she asked, disapproval radiating from her words. As she listened to them, she realised with a touch of dismay that she sounded peculiarly like Madame Giry.

In response to her question, Erik merely smiled and pulled his hidden hand from behind his back, revealing a wrapped bundle of red roses. All disapproval disappeared from Christine's mind as she took the flowers, unexpected tears blinking into her eyes as she gazed tenderly into their crimson centres. She looked up to find a rather sad expression clouding Erik's eyes, but smiled at his next comment.

"There was not a length of black ribbon to be found."

"Wherever did you get them?" Christine asked with a soft smile; but all pleasure faded from her expression as Erik made no immediate response. She gasped as sudden images came to mind. "You did not-"

"I did not borrow the bouquet from a grave," Erik said sharply, then softened his tone. "I thought that you would possibly disapprove of my little excursion from the cemetery. They came from a little florist a way outside the graveyard."

Relief flooded into Christine, and she only gave the briefest frown at this confession before relaxing back into a smile.

"Thank you," she said quietly. A twinge of guilt came as she realised that this was where Erik's ill-gotten money went.

Erik nodded, obviously pleased by her approval. He reached a black glove over the bouquet and nestled a finger into the display of petals, terribly close to Christine, to the hidden money she was terribly aware of. She sucked in her breath almost unconsciously, bringing her shoulders forward to detract attention from her neckline.

She was slightly surprised when Erik gently pried the flowers from her tight fingers, watching as he unwrapped and settled them into a jug which he subsequently filled with water.

Christine crossed her arms over her chest as she watched him move about the small room. She felt suddenly afraid of what his reaction would be, when she finally told him of her deal.

"What persuaded you to visit on this chilly day that sees the other regular visitors safely within their warm houses?" Erik asked lightly. Christine wondered if he was aware of her sudden caginess.

She smiled despite herself. "The knowledge that the other regular visitors would be safely within their houses?" she suggested cheekily, earning a smile in return. "I wanted to let you know that I have rescued most of your remaining, heavier possessions from your abandoned cavern."

"Thank you," Erik said, a serious expression overturning the smile. "They know enough about me already. I feel easier knowing that I can remain mostly a ghost to them."

Christine nodded, silently agreeing with her companion. "How have you been?" she asked softly, the word 'sleeping' sticking unsaid in her mouth. She did not want to be unnecessarily forward.

"Well enough," he said shortly, studying her closely with his examining gaze. "I can hardly complain, given the terms of this arrangement."

Christine could see the coffin through the back of her skull and sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. She welcomed Erik's arms when they settled quietly around her, enjoying the confidence employed by the previously wary man. She leaned into his secure chest, burrowing her head into the warm folds of his cloak. She froze when she heard the telltale crunch of paper rustle loudly in the silence of the tomb.

Erik's arms lay rather loosely around her, and she reluctantly pulled her head up to look into questioning eyes. She sighed; this was not going to be left unnoticed. This was confirmed the next moment.

"I almost hate to ask, Christine, but- whatever have you hidden inside your dress?"

Christine had to stop herself from clutching both hands to her bodice, aware of how inappropriate the situation had become already. She knew she had little other choice, and retrained herself from providing Erik with some dreadful explanation involving the practises of sixteen-year-old girls.

"I-" she began, then stopped. The expression on Erik's face was simply hilarious. She had to bite her lip to stifle a giggle, reminding herself severely of the embarrassment she was about to suffer.

She decided that words would inevitably prove less effective than actions, and made to reach down her bodice with a sigh, pausing awkwardly when Erik suddenly spun on his heel. This was rather humiliating. She quickly grasped the thin edge of a note between her fingers and pulled, tapping Erik on the shoulder quietly once it was uncovered. He turned slowly, his eyes travelling from Christine's apprehensive face to her hand, and to the note.

He swung around, eyes darting to the bag of coins sitting near the door and then back to her hand, and then, inadvertently to her chest. Christine blushed heavily before he suddenly seemed to come to himself and stared at her red face with utter confusion.

There was an extremely pregnant pause.

"I'm at a bit of a loss, Christine," Erik said finally, his faint tone betraying more of his astonishment. "You know that I would give you whatever you should desire."

Christine shook her head furiously, refusing to break eye contact through her mortification. "I do not want this money for myself," she protested quietly, giving Erik a slightly wounded look. "I believe that you know me well enough to understand that I am not interested in the glory of riches."

Erik nodded reluctantly, no doubt remembering the Vicomte de Chagny quite as well as Christine did herself.

She sighed, knowing she had to continue. "I do not feel comfortable with the knowledge that we must rely on money made through cruelty and fear," she said bluntly, lowering her eyes.

Erik sighed in response, and Christine was surprised by the hand that came to her own, crushing the note she held with a powerful grip. "I know, my angel."

"Opportunity has offered us another way, Erik," she said, her words tinged with a measure of happiness. She felt as Erik's eyes swept back to her face, but kept her gaze focussed on the ground. "Monsieur Reyer found me with one of your earlier paintings yesterday and offered a considerable sum for it, should his brother deem it worthy of his gallery." She didn't look up to see his reaction to this revelation. "He said that if it was good enough, which it undoubtedly is, then his brother would offer to buy more paintings, for more money."

When no response greeted these words, Christine lifted her eyes with an enormous feeling of trepidation hanging in her chest. Erik calmly met her gaze with his own.

"Of course it will be adequate for whatever gaudy enterprise is owned by that confounded conductor's brother," he said with enough indignation to make a relieved smile fly to Christine's lips.

"We can live honourably," she said gladly, pressing herself back into Erik's arms. "You would only need to abandon a few paintings and we could have enough money to find a place far away from this awful place!"

She could feel Erik's own contentment mix with her own at the idea of a free life together, and sighed deeply with considerable happiness.

They both froze once more as a crackle opened the silence once more.

This time, however, the awkward silence was broken by laughter, as both Erik and Christine stared down at her bursting bodice. This time it was she who turned away, tugging wads of notes from within her dress and throwing them neatly on the bag in the corner. There was no need for such subterfuge any longer. Besides, she doubted that the managers deserved their money back. Theatre tickets cost a considerably exorbitant price these days. It was hardly honest money in the first place. Instead, Christine decided to leave the money with the manager of the cemetery whenever Erik eventually left. Heaven knew they deserved it for (however unknowingly) putting up with a real ghost!

* * *

Later, when Christine was about to leave Erik to another night in the lonely mausoleum, he pressed an unsealed envelope into her hands. She gazed at him questioningly, and he placed his other gloved hand over the first.

"I would ask you to get this to the managers for me. I felt that they deserved one last comment from their Opera Ghost."

Christine stared down at the envelope with recognition, and smiled.

"You may read it before I seal it if you like."

She nodded, then pulled the thick sheet of paper from the envelope, her smile widening as she read:

_Dear Messieurs,_

_It will be to your immense delight, I'm sure, that you will receive this official letter of resignation from the Opera Ghost. Your services are no longer of use to me- although I still look forward to last month's salary. _

_A piece of advice concerning our cacophonic Carlotta: I find it quite a concern that she was allowed to return. I expect that you will finally recognise the full promise of Mademoiselle Daaé when she becomes greatly coveted and profitable- on some stage far from this Opera House._

_A warning: you may search over and under the Opera House for my secrets, but you will never find what you seek._

_O.G.

* * *

_

**A/N: Voila! Hope this one was worth the wait. I enjoyed writing it considerably. My exams are all over and I'm getting the results tomorrow- yay, excitement- but I'll probably only be able to get out one more chapter before I- gasp- GO TO EUROPE INCLUDING LONDON TO SEE POTO AT WEST END!!!!!!**

**Oh oh oh, I'm sooo excited. :) I'm positive it'll give me some great inspiration for the remainder of this story. And hey, if that doesn't, POTO's actually coming to Australia next year, which is absolutely awesome. **

**So: 11 days! **

**Hope you enjoyed it- look forward to the next chapter! Thanks to all de-lovely reviewers, I appreciate the feedback as always.**

**-Froody**


	31. Reputation

**A/N: Hello, Mr Loooong Chapter. I poured many nights into this lengthy creation, and I don't think many readers will be disappointed. Enjoy!

* * *

**

"What a disgraceful notion!"

Christine sighed and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. She should have known that Erik's letter would not be received with good grace. She had not given the blameworthy document directly to the managers- she had enough sense to know that such blatancy would destroy her slim chances of remaining aloof from the mystery surrounding the whereabouts of the Opera Ghost.

Her slim chances had, of course, been destroyed anyhow. As soon as the letter had come within the sight of Monsieur Firmin, chaos had erupted. The shouting could be heard from the other side of the Opera House. Then, Christine had smiled at the manager's confusion. However, when she had been summoned mere minutes later, that smile had faded along with any traces of humour the situation provoked.

And now here she was, trailing an infuriated Monsieur Firmin, whose very moustache rippled with rage every few footsteps. The letter looked worse for wear, clutched vehemently in the manager's white-knuckled grasp.

"What a _disgraceful _notion!" Monsieur Firmin repeated, his ruddy face slowly donning a purple veneer. "To suggest another kidnapping like that! To expect last month's _salary_!"

Christine looked up at these words, her eyes now fixed sharply on the upset manager's back. Kidnap? She had somehow missed that interpretation of Erik's letter when she had skimmed its contents there in the mausoleum.

_I expect that you will finally recognise the full promise of Mademoiselle Daaé when she becomes greatly coveted and profitable- on some stage far from this Opera House._

Oh no. Was that what this uproar was about? Monsieur Firmin did not feel threatened, did he?

Christine felt her stomach begin to squeeze in on itself as fear suddenly joined the old irritation. Could they somehow keep her here at the Opera House? Did they think the Phantom of the Opera would suddenly swoop and capture their newly discovered vocal talent, whisking her off to some faraway place?

Well, it had happened before, hadn't it? And in Christine's more secret hopes, it would happen again.

Oh, where was Madame Giry when she was needed? She had not appeared during the practise session Christine had been removed from. The girls were left to their own devices- but they did not squander the time they were given. Every young dancer had at some time had the unfortunate experience of being punished by a furious Madame Giry for being idle during practise hours.

Christine was frankly surprised that the pandemonium hadn't attracted the severe woman, caused her to appear from nowhere with an irate glare. Plenty of other curious eyes had appeared around doors as she had followed the loudly furious manager through the corridors. It seemed that every corner produced another series of creaks as chinks were opened in doorways to satisfy curiosity.

Christine was not surprised. Monsieur Firmin was not making an effort to hush his outrage. Really, this was exactly the noise that those at the Opera House had come to expect upon the arrival of one of the Ghost's famous letters. She was sure that most of the inquisitive eyes peering out at her were wondering whether their terrifying Phantom had returned. Feared though he undoubtedly had been, with his swirling cloak and white mask, he had become an integral part of the Opera House for many of its inhabitants. Even the terrible murder of that greasy stagehand, Joseph Buquet, had only heightened the Phantom's dark, yet romantic reputation.

She found it so difficult now to understand the general excitement amongst the population of the Opera House when the Ghost was mentioned. Of course she knew the man behind the mask- or rather, something of the heart of the man- but even before she had met Erik, she had found the whole affair rather unexciting. Her imagination had been focussed entirely on her own unearthly spirit, her Angel of Music. Now they were one and the same to Christine, but the two, the Phantom and the Angel, they were part of a man.

The idea that her Erik was some kind of revered mascot of the Opera House put a bad taste in Christine's mouth.

"Monsieur Firmin?" she said quite loudly, causing the man to spin on his heel and stop, facing her. She stumbled a little in surprise, but gathered herself together, mostly for the benefit of the many watching eyes.

"What?" he barked angrily. Christine flinched as she heard the sound of tearing paper.

"Where are we going, Monsieur?" Christine tried to adopt a soothing tone, unwilling to provoke more anger from the purple-faced man.

Monsieur Firmin's face tightened at her question, and he used the crumpled, torn remnants of Erik's letter to gesture furiously down the corridor behind him. "We are going, Mademoiselle, to find Monsieur Andre, so that he may contact the Inspector and bring back those confounded dogs!"

Christine's heart dropped at the thought of a renewed investigation of the Opera House. She had been so happy to think that the ordeal, the stress, the worry, was finally over.

"But Monsieur," she said carefully, "is the letter not some form of resignation from the Opera Ghost?"

The startling colour blotching Monsieur Firmin's neck gradually faded as the man slowly began to unfold the letter as best he could. Without a word in response to Christine, he lowered his head and began to mutter the lines of handwriting to himself. A rather comical look of bafflement settled upon his face, and he looked back to where Christine stood, the letter held loosely in his hands.

"Is it… is it possible?" he said weakly, provoking a flurry of giggles from open doors behind Christine. She stood silently, keeping her face as innocent and innocuous as possible. "Could he have finally… given up? Have we won?"

Christine tried very hard to refrain from rolling her eyes at the man's continued perception of the Phantom's terrible deeds as competition. Really, everything was a contest to this man, and to the other, like-minded manager. Their time in the scrap-metal industry had ill-prepared them for a job at an opera house- particularly this one.

"I believe he has gone, Monsieur," she answered softly.

"But- but this is terrific!" the man gasped, stuffing the letter into his brocaded velvet pocket without ceremony.

Christine nodded, but she could feel her throat tighten even as she thought of the empty cavern beneath the Opera House. A sudden, dramatic entrance from an adjacent doorway soon caused those desolate thoughts to fly from her mind, however.

"What's going on, Firmin?" a thin voice roared, and Christine's brown curls went flying as she snapped around to see a thunderous Monsieur Andre storm into the small corridor, followed closely by Carlotta.

"The Ghost's given up- well, the ghost, old chap!" Monsieur Firmin cried merrily, but his smile disappeared when his co-manager continued to appear most unimpressed.

"Carlotta informs me that we have received another letter!" he snapped, and behind him the Prima Donna nodded haughtily.

"The Phantom wants the girl!" she shrilled, her piercing voice causing Christine to wince as always. But worse than the cacophony were the words…

"Christine Daaé?" Monsieur Andre cried, a note of incredulity in his tone. His eyes flicked sharply to where she stood silently, watching the affair grow more dangerous with considerable foreboding. "But- what more could he want with the girl?"

Christine's mouth fell open in horrified embarrassment as she felt many sets of eyes suddenly set onto her flaming face. He was not… he could not be _suggesting_ that…

"Well," Monsieur Andre said more quietly, with more than a touch of defensiveness, "she was gone all night. Surely there have been rumours," he said, the volume of his voice rising as he peered down the corridor, searching for consensus amid those spying on the increasingly interesting situation. "I did not think that her voice would be of much interest to a murderous criminal."

For a moment there was a horrible silence in the corridor.

"How dare you?" Christine whispered suddenly into the hush, and Monsieur Andre's face flushed crimson, but his moustache bristled defiantly.

As Christine turned on her heel and stormed down the corridor, even a silent Carlotta stepped aside.

* * *

Christine didn't allow herself to break into tears before she had swept the heavy front doors shut behind her. Once she was facing the wintry, white streets of Paris, however, her resolve dissolved, and for a while she could not see for tears.

No one paused at the sight of a small form huddled miserably on the front steps of the Opera House. A snowstorm had ravaged the streets in the early hours of the afternoon, and any passing figures had little time to spare for a stranger's woes, slowed by the heavy drifts of snow strewn over the landscape.

This lack of interference did not bother Christine in the slightest. Her humiliation burnt her. She had spent so many years outside of the spotlight, happy to be left out, overlooked in a crowd, safe with the secret friendship of her Angel. No rumours had been spread about the quiet girl. Other dancers found her boring.

And now. Now there would be more than rumours. Monsieur Andre's accusation had surely destroyed her reputation forever. What would her father think of this horrible disgrace?

Here in the snow, skirt flattened with cold, wet slush, Christine wanted more than ever to leave the Opera House. She felt an odd jealousy for Erik's escape, the freedom he could now enjoy, heavily limited though it was. The tears froze on her cheeks as she thought of him, and she sat up with a sudden need to see him.

Avoiding the humiliation of those within the Opera House seemed infinitely more important than changing her wet clothes, and so she opted to travel immediately to the graveyard. She hailed a carriage with the confidence that came with routine and directed the driver to her father's cemetery.

Shivering, she waited inside the carriage with impatience, watching the cosy houses speed past. The driver made no attempt to speak to his odd, damp passenger, and Christine was left to her thoughts during the journey.

When at last they arrived, she asked the driver to leave her outside the frosted gates, and waited until the thump of horse shoes on snow had faded before entering. Christine barely glanced at the monuments lining the path as she trod slowly through the crunching snow. Her concentration was fixed on each cautious footstep into the deep powder. She couldn't stand thinking about the cause for this visit to the graveyard.

She pushed the heavy door of the mausoleum open without knocking, too cold and wretched for such niceties. When she entered, however, the air creeping against her skin seemed only colder than in the snowy yard. When she looked up, she was surprised to find both Erik and Madame Giry staring back at her.

"Christine?" Madame Giry murmured faintly, and Christine suddenly realised that the woman was holding Erik's hand in a secure grip. The ballet mistress straightened and released the hand hastily. "Christine, whatever are you doing out here?"

"I wondered where you had disappeared to," Christine said, unvoiced questions evident in her tone as she stared at Erik's bare hand, so white and unlike his usual black glove.

"Are you all right?" Erik asked worriedly, interrupting this uncomfortable exchange.

Christine touched a hand to her face. She had forgotten her misery in surprise, but now she remembered how distraught she must still appear, red-rimmed eyes above a damp, dirty skirt. She watched silently as Madame Giry, transforming into her strict, maternal persona, began to approach her- albeit rather tentatively. Christine hung her head, grateful for the curtain of curls that seemed to release her from the awkward scene.

She did not want to talk to Madame Giry now. The woman had not been available when help was needed, and Christine felt betrayed. She did not fully understand why.

But why was Madame Giry holding Erik's hand so familiarly? Where had she been when Christine needed her fierce protection the most? Here, with Erik? Holding his hand? Talking to him, _tête-à-tête_, stealing the precious moments of confidence Christine felt she had to extract from him so delicately?

"Oh, Christine," Madame Giry said, almost sadly.

Christine felt, rather than saw, as the woman reached out her hand- and then hesitated. She could almost feel the familiar, tender brush of Madame Giry's palm against her cheek. But then she saw the hand drop, and she waited as footsteps clapped dully on the floor, shivering involuntarily as a chill breezed through the suddenly open door, then vanished with a click.

The rush of cold air dissipated- but the tense silence remained. Finally Erik spoke, his calm voice steady, still concerned.

"What has happened, Christine?" he asked gently.

Now that it came to it, now that she was here and Erik was listening watchfully, Christine felt embarrassed, even more humiliated by Monsieur Andre's vicious accusations. How could she explain her dishevelled presence, tell Erik how harmful those comments were to her reputation? Had Erik ever known the importance of maintaining a good reputation? Somehow Christine doubted it. Men seemed to avoid the sting of rumours and malicious gossip. There was no point in regretting a scandal when they held enough power to ignore others' judgements. And Erik was even further removed from such affairs than other men. The Opera Ghost was feared, but few had seen through the mask and judged the man behind it.

In blinding, unfair contrast, a chorus girl could not afford such a stain on her reputation.

How could Erik understand her humiliation?

She was startled when a hand broke through her dangling hair and pulled her chin away from her neck with insistent strength. The hand slipped to her shoulder as she began to comply, and rubbed at her tensed muscles. Her eyes lifted unwillingly, but were almost immediately lost in the blue compassion of Erik's gaze. What had she been thinking? Where had those doubts come from? Of course Erik would understand. He wanted her to be happy.

"Let me stay here with you," Christine said suddenly, and she could feel Erik's surprise in the sudden stiffness of his hand. She clamped her own cold fingers over his as they threatened to slip away, and stared into his eyes resolutely.

Now Erik dropped his own gaze, but settled his arms comfortably around Christine's waist. She could tell that he was considering something, but she could not imagine what. She just knew that she wanted to avoid returning to the Opera House for as long as humanly possible.

Erik sighed. Christine tensed slightly. What would he say in response to her plea?

"You have asked me that before."

Their eyes locked as they both remembered, that emotional day, the lake, the tears, those insecurities that refused to leave both of them. But Christine offered a weak smile to Erik at the memory. He had not refused her. She had simply forgotten to demand an answer. There, by the lake, Raoul's coat slung casually over her shoulders, both she and Erik had harboured too many reservations to truly approach such a daring concept- that they could be together in happiness.

But that day had also resolved many qualms, revealed and therefore strengthened their self-confidences, the confidence they had in each other. So many things had changed since then.

Erik cleared his throat then, and Christine's small smile quickly became a silent plea.

"Christine," he began, his voice still gentle, its rich tones soothing her as they had when she was little and he was still an angel. "I am afraid that I must ask you to tell me what has happened to send you here."

Christine frowned. "Does it matter?" she asked bluntly, her eyes fixed on Erik's face as he looked up with a slight intake of breath. "I want to be here, with you." She glanced around. "Well, not here. Not here. But nowhere without you."

What did it mean when Erik's eyes fell once more to the ground, refusing to meet her own? She could almost sense his quickening heartbeat as she could feel her own gallop within her chest. Wasn't he happy? Didn't he understand how she needed to be here, safe within his arms, away from the rumours and the spite?

She slipped her arms under his as she pressed herself recklessly to his chest, needing to feel his heart beat near hers.

Erik kissed the top of her head, making Christine smile with tears in her eyes, but she was confused when he pulled her away almost immediately.

"Why?" he asked forcefully, and Christine studied the patterns in her skirt, knowing that she would have to answer.

"I gave Monsieur Firmin your letter." She paused, but the studied silence forced her to continue. "Then Carlotta said that you- that the Ghost- was planning to kidnap me. And then," Christine flushed red, "then Monsieur Andre accused me- us- of-"

She stopped, and her cheeks flamed above the delicate pale of her neck. But Erik said nothing, and Christine felt shame begin to tighten her throat. As tears began to cloud her vision, she felt strong arms begin to inch their way around her waist. Abandoning dignity, she threw herself against Erik and began to sob into his chest. His arms tightened about her immediately.

It felt so comforting to cry there, within a warm embrace. Her earlier humiliation seemed more and more ridiculous. It did not matter what anyone else thought of her, reputation be damned. Her tears were wonderfully babyish.

What glorious freedom she had, free of fears for foolish ideas like responsibility and respectability. Her tears were replaced with a smile. Christine pulled herself upright, ignoring Erik's renewed perplexity, and reached for his lips with her own. She felt him give way to her hungry kiss, and she pressed on, ignoring his hesitations. She had never felt so free, so alive.

She wrapped her arms tightly about Erik's neck, pulling him down to her, giving her access to show this new bravado properly, letting her explore this art of kissing in a way her innocence had shied away from. After a moment he responded in kind, his tentativeness giving way to desire.

When Christine pulled away to breathe, she suddenly noticed that she was trembling, that the arms she had noosed about Erik's neck had somehow slipped away. Her hands were now clutching at his face, her white fingers digging into one cheek and bruising against his hard, white mask.

She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to crash down upon hers, but when none came, her eyelids fluttered open. Erik's face seemed set; he was looking away from her. His hands pressed painfully into her sides, but then he suddenly released her and stepped away, breathing deeply.

"I promised Madame Giry that I would behave honourably, Christine."

She remained silent, staring at him. What did honour matter now, when they were here, alone, together? What did her reputation matter?

"I owe it to you to follow the decorum instated by your church and society."

Christine was still slightly put out when she allowed Erik to slide his arms around her once more.

"I do not believe that you will find it too difficult to defend your reputation when you return to the Opera House, Christine," Erik said, and Christine could see him smile softly, but could not understand it. She would now be the subject of constant gossip amongst the population of the Opera Populaire thanks to the managers.

"The only rumours that you will have to face upon your return will be those sprung from jealousy."

Christine gazed into Erik's intense gaze breathlessly as his smile faded into grave sincerity. She could feel her hands begin to tremble again as an arm was removed from her waist, and she closed her eyes in anticipation as she felt Erik pull himself from her completely.

"Christine," she heard, and that glorious voice seemed to have moved somewhat lower. She opened her eyes, feeling almost removed from the situation as emotions flared erratically, and Erik was kneeling on the ground before her.

His blue eyes were open to her for once, pleading, that plea Christine understood so well.

"I love you," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears, and she collapsed to her knees. Her shaking fingers grasped the hand proffered to her, and she kissed the smooth, bare skin tenderly before accepting the ring that lay on Erik's open palm.

* * *

**A/N: **

**-pause for reflection and fuzzy feelings-**

**Merry Christmas to everyone. I'm leaving for Europe in around 36 hours, and will not get another chapter up before then, so this is it for a few weeks. I hope I satisfied everyone's need for fluff for now, but I'm sure you can look forward to a lot more from this story.**

**Tell me what you liked, what you disliked, how amazingly wonderful the Erik of my story is (not to mention positively yummy) and whatever else you feel like. **

**I just hope for poor Christine's sake that they manage to have a honeymoon somewhere far, far away from her daddy's mausoleum. :)**

**Thank you for all the reviews! I appreciate each and every one. **

**-Froody**


	32. Ring

Christine's right hand felt slightly more restricted than it had that morning, but the new weight around her ring finger was more than offset by the glorious sense of weightlessness her feet had taken. As she trailed through the cemetery she laughed inanely, feeling foolish, knowing that there was no one to see her but throwing a wide smile around at the abandoned gravestones anyway. It was all she could do to keep her right hand by her side. A childish urge to fling the gold band into the sunlight at every opportunity pulled at her. Stopping abruptly, just within the gates, she finally complied.

The ring was pleasingly simple, a diamond set into a plain band of white gold. Christine knew that an artist would appreciate the beauty of such simplicity. It was unlike Erik's music, the extravagance of his clothing, his former lifestyle. It reminded her of his paintings. For all she knew the man might have designed this ring himself. She would ask him; later. When she could look at her fiancée without breaking into tears of joy.

It also reminded Christine of her mother's ring, though Erik could not have possibly known. It had hung on a chain around her father's neck for as long as she could remember. She could barely picture her mother. The ring, that final memory, had been buried in the mausoleum along with her father on that dreadful day so many years ago.

And so her new ring brought an additional sweetness with its already blissful meanings.

How could one day be divided so spectacularly into emotions? Christine could hardly remember the origin of her earlier trauma. It all seemed so silly now. As delightfully silly as she had felt, finally extricated from Erik's arms at his reluctant insistence; apparently there were some mysterious 'preparations' to be made. She had floated out the door, down the path, eyes welling as her ring glittered in the sunlight.

She felt like walking, though the light was indeed slowly withdrawing itself from the countryside, and, oddly comforted with the knowledge that her dress was already in a disgraceful mess, walked gracefully down the trailing, icy road. There was not a carriage to be seen in any case.

Some kilometres later, when common sense (and the bitter cold) began to make itself known to Christine, she hailed an approaching carriage and directed it to the Opera House. She felt that the mystery of Madame Giry's earlier presence at her father's mausoleum had been quite cleared up, and any resentment she had felt at the time had now completely disappeared. As she paid the driver with far too many francs and walked across the square to the ornate entrance, she didn't even worry about her dishevelled appearance, or the fact that she had been missing from rehearsals all day.

She stepped through the door and, smiling, walked through the entrance hall, a staring group of musicians and two whispering ballet rats.

However painful the idea of gossip among the dancers had been that morning, Christine did not even feel the slightest urge to make a particular effort to display her ring. Let them talk. Erik had asked her to marry him. Those words had not been spoken, but they did not need to be. Words did not matter.

Christine's new conclusion did not seem to break through the bonds of friendship, however, and so she swept through the hallways of the Opera House seeking out Meg. It did not matter that the last time she had dared to make an important confession to her friend had ended with humiliation and betrayal; an engagement was far more important than a mere kiss with the Opera Ghost. Christine had a feeling that a diamond ring trumped just about everything to a girl like Meg.

But where was she? And where was Madame Giry? Christine's happiness faded slightly with each empty room she poked her head through. When she eventually reached her dressing room and discovered nobody within, she heaved a sigh and collapsed onto the wooden chair by her table. The smile on her face had not shifted, however. How could it when she was facing her mirror?

Christine knew that she had to give her overwhelming happiness a brief respite and allow herself a moment to be serious, to think about what had just happened and what it meant. She rubbed her eyes, careful to avoid scratching her face with the unfamiliar ring. Yes, she loved Erik. Yes, she wanted to marry him more than anything in the world. But her life- their life- was not empty of unvoiced troubles even now. Thinking about Erik's mask could make her heart sink even there in her dressing room, surrounded by paintings, the heady aroma of dying roses, her eyes fixed on her ring.

What was this ring, after all, but a symbol of love, promise and trust? For her it represented her engagement, the marriage that would follow, her future husband. But what was Erik's mask if not a symbol of his lack of trust in her?

Somehow, for some reason, he still felt a need to hide from her. With that thought, without the shield her happiness had provided for her, Christine began to feel the niggling of guilt deep in her belly. Had she encouraged this? Did Erik see her love of beautiful things as a reminder of the dangers of his deformity? Surely he knew that the most beautiful things to surround her were his arms!

She looked at the ring again in a different light, holding her right hand almost reluctantly into better view. Was this ring merely a symbol of her selfishness? She saw now that the diamond appeared overly elaborate, unnecessary. It only hid the plain beauty of the small, golden band.

Like Erik's mask.

But surely he knew that she would have accepted a ring made of twisted paper with the same tears of joy.

Sitting there, alone, in the close darkness of her dressing room, Christine knew that she would have to win his trust quickly, before her happiness could be tainted with regret. He had to relinquish his hold on the past to embrace their future.

There was a sharp rapping on the frame of the open door to her dressing room, and Christine's head snapped sideways expectantly. She almost groaned when she saw that it was not Meg or Madame Giry who was waiting impatiently but Monsieur Reyer.

He stepped in without ceremony and brandished a letter towards her. She accepted it with a touch of confusion.

"From my brother, you understand," he said, smiling shortly. Christine almost expected him to leave directly, but he stayed, staring pointedly at the sealed envelope.

As Christine broke the seal and drew out the paper that lay within, she suddenly remembered the importance of this correspondence. Monsieur Reyer's brother had been sent Erik's painting as a sample of his artwork! Her hands trembled slightly in anticipation as she skimmed through the perfunctory comments and reached the important words. She could feel Monsieur Reyer lean forwards in curiosity, but paid little attention.

_I am delighted to inform you that the painting my brother sent to me was indeed a masterpiece. I daresay it belongs in a proper gallery and, as a highly experienced art dealer, I will do my best to make this a reality. _

Christine gasped in delight and almost began to laugh, such was the mixture of relief, pride and gladness that filled her, but the reminder of the expectant Monsieur Reyer behind her was enough to calm her.

"How quickly your brother responded!" she said warmly, smiling openly at the conductor.

Monsieur Reyer looked slightly vexed at her superfluous comment but nodded. "I took him the painting immediately after we spoke yesterday. A servant dropped this letter to my rooms this morning, so I have been curious of his answer all day. I attempted to find you earlier, but you appeared to be out. Again."

Christine ignored his patronising tone and broadened her smile as she handed the letter to the conductor. He took it with a nod of thanks and began to read it, and while he read it, Christine gazed across the room to the wardrobe, within which she had crammed the remaining paintings salvaged yesterday from the lake. How lucky she was to be blessed with such a talented fiancé (though, of course, she had not needed this confirmation to know that.) From the price Gaston Reyer was prepared to pay for each of Erik's paintings, they would be very well off indeed.

"Excellent!" Monsieur Reyer exclaimed jovially, interrupting Christine's reverie. He thrust the letter towards her once more, but now his face had taken a pleased look. "If he had refused, I'm afraid I would have been forced into the art dealer profession myself."

Christine stood and took a step towards the conductor, shaking his hand warmly. "It was wonderful for you to organise this for my friend."

"Think nothing of it," he said dismissively, and left Christine alone once more after reminding her to attend rehearsal the following day.

Christine gazed happily at the letter in her hand as she contemplated upon how wonderful her future would surely be. She would finally marry the man she loved, marry into his problems and mystery, and perhaps be able to solve both. The Phantom would finally own his angel; she could give Erik a happy life he had barely allowed himself to dream about.

Head in her hand, she stared past the letter, which was crumpled slightly in her fingers, the outline of a small diamond leaving a wonderful imprint.

* * *

No more time could be wasted in waiting for the strangely elusive Girys. Christine could hardly keep the news from the artist. And besides, she had more than that reason to want to seek out her new fiancé. 

Her heart thudded high in her chest as she walked quickly through the same hallways she had swept through just minutes before. Those gossips she had passed before, seated so solidly in their sordid conversations, gave her odd looks that she ignored. She dared to wave at some with her bejewelled right hand, and felt inexplicably glorious when their conversations skid to a halt, words halting as their mouths dropped open.

Well, she'd done it now. The whole place would know of her mysterious and entirely unexpected engagement by the time she returned. She had wanted to surprise Meg with the news, but she doubted that her friend would believe the rumours without Christine's own affirmation.

She discovered that it had become quite dark during her brief visit to the Opera House. A heavy shawl was necessary for the growing cold, and wrapped tightly within it, she felt slightly more protected from the night.

The carriage sped along the cobbled streets. Cafés and corner pubs spilled bright light onto the road before them, their raucous patrons providing Christine with loud bursts of laughter, snatches of many a hearty drinking song, and an odd sense of soothing comfort. But when she climbed out of the carriage at the cemetery and stared into the darkness before her, her calm fell away quite as easily as it had come. The horses were urged into a steady trot behind her, and the dying sound of their hooves on the road made Christine feel quite alone.

She suddenly realised that she had never attempted to visit her father's grave or even Erik at such a time. Whatever would she do if the cemetery gates were locked?

Her heart began pounding as she neared the closed gates with a growing fear tightening in her chest. Her feet skidded on ice that she couldn't see, and as she slid perilously forward, she flung out her hands instinctively and grabbed onto the gate, which she had thankfully reached. She collapsed for a moment against the icy iron in relief, leaning against it rather heavily, and was suddenly filled with dismay. It hadn't opened.

"Thank goodness for the moon," Christine whispered to herself, heaving a leg over the cruel iron spokes of the fence gate. Perhaps the nearby pile of snow and the appearance of the waxing moon from behind some cloud had been a form of luck. Not to be ungrateful, Christine thought irately, but she would have preferred an open gate.

Her skirt almost caught as she swung the second leg over, but she twisted slightly, her dancer's arms supporting her nicely, and just escaped ruining another hem. Now hanging over the correct side of the fence she allowed herself to drop the few feet to the ground, expecting a soft landing. Her behind experienced that soft landing when she tripped slightly, and a very unladylike curse arose from the icy ground.

Christine wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the deserted, lonely grounds she slowly trod through, trying to keep her eyes fixed on the path before her. It wasn't difficult to imagine unholy creatures roaming the graveyard at this hour. She was mere metres from the entrance to the mausoleum when an owl released an ill-timed hoot. Christine screamed and began to sprint forward towards her father's tomb. Miraculously, she did not trip up the stairs. Without knocking she grabbed the handle to the heavy door and threw it open, too scared to be surprised that it was unlocked.

"Another visitor?" she heard come wryly from the darkness, but she focussed on slamming the door behind her and catching her breath. A touch of embarrassment began to float to her cheeks as she suddenly remembered herself, and cleared her throat to greet Erik.

"Christine?" he said with a hint of shock, somehow procuring a match for himself in the complete darkness and hastily lighting a candle.

"Erik," she answered sheepishly, suddenly remembering to brush the frozen leaves off her backside.

"Have you missed me so much in the last few hours?" he asked with a small smile as he watched her attempt to tidy herself.

"Not really… well yes! Well, that isn't the main reason why I am here at such a frightening hour, but of course I did," Christine said, suddenly distracted; she hadn't remembered to change out of her muddy dress at the Opera House, had she? "Well, I must look a sight!" she cried in exasperation, causing Erik to smile at her sudden change of the subject.

"It is much too dark for anyone to be able to tell," he said soothingly, setting the candle into a nearby holder with a steady hand.

Christine gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. "The carriage driver! Those wretched, gossiping dancers at the Opera House! Monsieur Reyer!"

Erik frowned in confusion. "Why would Monsieur Reyer's opinion matter in the slightest?" he said dismissively, before smiling again and moving forward to clasp Christine's tensed fingers in his own. "Now please tell me why you came to visit me at such an unsafe hour."

Christine relaxed, soothed by his touch, smiling gently into Erik's enquiring face as she felt his fingers caress her ring.

"I received a wonderful letter from the same Monsieur Reyer you seem to believe does not matter." She sighed as Erik's face remained oblivious to the significance of such an event. "It said- wait, I'll give it to you." She stopped searching in her pockets to smile up at Erik. "It's really yours."

She found the letter and gave it to him, waiting for his reaction with excitement. The lack of reaction bestowed upon the news in the letter was rather disappointing for Christine.

"The art dealer thinks that your painting is a masterpiece, Erik," she prompted impatiently, her own joy evident in her sparkling eyes.

Erik looked rather uncertain at the thought of placing such importance on his paintings. Christine fought back a smile and reached for his hands again.

"But I reached you through my music," he murmured, gazing down at their clasped hands, at the ring drawn reverently past Christine's knuckle.

"It isn't very easy for a ghost to levitate a painting," Christine replied softly, and smiled into Erik's shoulder. "Besides," she continued, leaning back, "the music you have written for us is so personal that it should not have to be created merely for money."

"Nothing," Erik said with finality in his tone, "that I create is merely for money. It is all for you, Christine. It is all for you."

Christine felt tears begin to clog her throat and hurriedly turned her gaze from those blue eyes, so honest, so intense. She could feel Erik waiting for her, twisting the ring around her finger, and she remembered his mask. Was that all for her too? Other emotions joined the mess steadily preparing Christine's tear ducts, and she was quite relieved when Erik dropped her hands.

"Speaking of which," he said mysteriously, and, distracted, Christine was able to look back at him with a watery smile. He drew his hand from behind his back and her smile grew at the familiar sight of a red rose. She reached for it and he gave it to her promptly.

"What-?" she cried in confusion as her hand was suddenly weighted down entirely unexpectedly. She felt something cold and hard rub against her knuckle and her eyes tore down from Erik's amused face to the rose she held in her hand. What was this?

Attached to the standard black ribbon was a key made of iron, thus explaining the abnormal weight of the rose.

"You have a terribly vicious imagination!" she exclaimed with a broad smile. She rested the rose carefully upon a bench as she untied the ribbon, sliding the key heavily to the end and examining it more closely in the candlelight.

Erik nodded silently as recognition suddenly came to Christine.

"But this is the key to the mausoleum!" she said in confusion, staring at Erik's expressionless face. She glanced back down at the key, and then to the door she had opened so easily just minutes before. She shook her head and tried to press it back upon Erik, who refused with a faint smile. "But I want you to be safe," she said quietly with a feeling of dismay.

"I have not finished," Erik said firmly, turning away once more. Christine couldn't understand what the man could be doing. What would he give her next? A rose attached to the mausoleum door?

When Erik turned back, another perfect rose sitting innocently in his hand, Christine almost giggled in utter bemusement, but restrained herself, reaching forward for the new flower. She prepared herself for an extreme weight, and was mildly surprised when there was none to be found. The rose did weigh more than it should have, however, and after first glancing suspiciously at Erik, she untied the black ribbon and held out another key, mystified. This key was brass and rather ordinary; a house key, Christine thought, shaking her head.

"What are these?" she said rather despairingly, gesturing at the keys, looking entirely bizarre side-by-side.

"One," Erik began, with a promising smile, eyes set piercingly into Christine, "we have no further need of."

Christine glanced to the heavy iron key and frowned in confusion.

"The other," Erik continued with a flourish, "will shortly replace it."

As Christine suddenly realised what Erik meant, she clapped her hands to her face, eyes almost bulging as she tore at her cheeks with white-knuckled fingers. Erik laughed and, after a moment, she joined him.

"I have purchased a house," he said softly, placing his arms around her waist and boring his gaze into hers. "It is safely away in ­­­­Lyon, where they have not heard any of the scandal surrounding your name."

"You are the scandal surrounding my name," Christine grumbled, but she couldn't remove her smile for anything in the world at that moment.

Erik shook his head dismissively and smiled back at her. "There was another matter that I had to prepare for before I could offer you a home in another city," he said more seriously, and reached into a pocket, removing a letter and handing it to Christine.

She unfolded the paper, which seemed of an excellent quality, reading the inked lines slowly. By the end of the first paragraph, however, she could not restrain herself from skimming through the contents, her excitement and wonder growing by the word.

"I have been accepted into the Lyon Opera House!" she cried in disbelief, flicking her eyes back and forth between the unexpected letter and Erik's satisfied smile.

"I gave them a recommendation that they could not reject," he said calmly, but was almost knocked off his feet when Christine came flying into his arms.

"This is perfect!" she cried tearfully, her control having finally disappeared, clutching Erik around the neck as if he was her only support. She relaxed her grip a little as Erik's arms met around her back, and she leaned into him, the letter still gripped tightly within her hand. She leant back so she could look into Erik's eyes, and smiled widely to spite the tears streaming down her face. "You have even protected my theatrical career," she said softly, shaking her head in wonder.

"Theatrical career," Erik said dismissively, shaking his head to mimic her action, "I have not protected a mere 'theatrical' career. I have promised the Lyon managers the finest leading soprano in their history."

As Christine's sublime happiness turned to the beginnings of reproach, Erik reached forward and gripped her hands, shaking them slightly with fervour as he looked into her eyes. "You will be the finest leading soprano in their history, Christine. I said before that they had not heard of the scandals surrounding your name, but they have heard of one. They remember how well-received you were when the Opera Populaire's prima donna could not perform. At your age, Christine," he said with utter severity, "Such a reception to your first performance signals a superb career."

Christine leant her tear-streaked face forward and rested it for a moment against Erik's waistcoat, overcome with all the news and propositions she had received today. She could hardly straighten her thoughts enough for the questions to begin flooding in, but one seemed to beckon loudly to be asked.

"Wherever did you find the time to organise all of this?" she asked inanely, still somewhat overcome with shock.

She could feel Erik lean forward to look at her, but he answered her question promptly. "I have been writing to a correspondent in Lyon since you allowed me to stay in your father's mausoleum." Christine remained silent, so he continued. "I secured the house yesterday, and Madame Giry brought me the letter in your hand just this morning."

Christine raised her head from his chest, suddenly ashamed as she remembered the unfound jealousy she had felt that morning. "How wonderful," she said softly, reminding herself to heartily thank Madame Giry.

"I did, however, experience some panic this afternoon when I could not procure the key to this mausoleum," Erik said lightly, and Christine laughed as she looked to the iron key resting on the nearby bench.

"How long did that search take?" she said with a smile.

"Well, I will only say that you just allowed me adequate time between visits," he said with a slight frown, as if remembering the panic he had flown into that afternoon.

Christine laughed. "You were extraordinarily well organised if my visit was so unexpected," she teased, gesturing towards the roses and the keys.

"I must admit I almost injured myself in surprise when you flew through that door," he smiled, holding up a gloved index finger.

"Oh?" Christine said querulously, stepping forward and taking the finger gently in her own. She began to peel the glove off tenderly, pausing for Erik to adjust to the touch, and then examined the revealed finger intensely. "I'm afraid there's just no hope for your unfortunate digit, Monsieur," she said severely, with every inch of puckered brow she could muster. "I will remove it immediately."

"I believe that a thorn may have already attempted that, good doctor," Erik said with an indulgent frown.

Christine laughed, and leant back into his waiting arms, happy to remain that way and so preserve the complete happiness that the day had brought her. Unfortunately, Erik refused to allow her to remain any longer in the unlocked, unsafe mausoleum, and he walked her into the nearest town, flagging down a carriage for her from beneath his heavy cloak.

Christine placed one foot on the first step of the carriage, but paused, turning to look at the hooded man who had so thoughtfully given her a hand to help her. She took that hand and found her way beneath the hood, searching for his lips with her own.

"Goodnight, Christine," he said a moment later, and she smiled as she heard his own, turning back to the carriage, her happiness restored.

* * *

**A/N: I'm back from holidays in Europe! (And I'm now just about to leave for the beach so I can enjoy a proper summer holiday and maybe, maybe even get a tan. Pfff, who am I kidding:))**

**I'm happy to say that the highlight of the trip was seeing Phantom at Her Majesty's Theatre with Earl Carpenter in the lead role. I saw it on the 12th of December with my family- which didn't turn out to be such a good idea, considering the fact that my mum and sister find Raoul unbearably attractive. It gave me hope when my brother said he didn't like the ending, alas: "that Phantom guy should have died." **

What can you do:)

I enjoyed it. It was the first time I'd seen the proper musical. I'd read Leroux's novel and seen the movie (of course), and comparing them to the musical was really interesting. For example, people say that the musical is a seriously sugar-coated version of the book. Well, having seen the musical, I'd have to say that I completely agree. The movie is the sugar-coated version of the musical. I can definitely see three levels of sugar-coatedness there. I found the musical to be sympathetic towards the Phantom in different respects to the film. There is so much less attraction there, ladies. Gerik is handsome; the Phantom is not.

Also, I found Christine to be faced with less of a decision in the musical. She didn't love the Phantom. It was clear that her dependability on her tutor stemmed from other affection; she thought he was her father.

Seeing the costumes, the scenery, the chandelier, was absolutely amazing. Oh, the chandelier... I was expecting it, but even so, when the lights suddenly flicked on and the organ began (incredibly, scarily loudly) it was the most amazingly spine-tingly moment ever. Very awesome.

I can't wait for Phantom to come to Melbourne next year! It's going to be very exciting. July 28th, I think. I'm already rounding up friends.

******I hope you all liked this chapter and enjoyed the fluff because I certainly did. I love all reviewers (and I had quite a few for the last chapter- though that was possibly because I'd been away for so long) and I'd be ever so grateful if you chose to continue your charitable efforts. :) **

**There will NOT be such a long gap between this chappie and the next! **

**Thanks for the reviews and for reading my story,**

**Froody**


	33. Mask

It had been some weeks since the ring had slipped around Christine's shaking finger that afternoon in her father's mausoleum. Since then, she had been forced to restrict the amount of time she spent away from the Opera House. A wildfire of rumours had torn around, undoubtedly sparked by Christine's enigmatic ring and her refusal to reveal the details of her engagement. She had been tempted to ignore the attention newly bestowed upon her by the many eager gossips and visit Erik anyway, but the threat of curious managers- or, even worse, that awful Inspector- had somehow deterred her. And Madame Giry wasn't exactly a source of encouragement.

"If you betray Erik's location now, of all times, you will never forgive yourself," she had said in that domineering voice, somehow knowing that Christine's resolve was wavering. And it was so difficult now to fill in the time between rehearsals!

For rehearse she did. Since Monsieur Reyer had gone to the effort of finding such success for Erik's painting, Christine felt that she owed the man something- even if his motives hadn't been so charitable. She was aware that Erik wasn't the only man receiving money for the paintings Christine had begun to send, one at a time, wrapped with the utmost care. But what could she do but smile back at Monsieur Reyer when he accepted the paintings?

Christine yearned to be closer to Erik, to share her excitement with him, to hold him, kiss him, remove that mask and make him trust her. She suspected that he still felt isolated from her, from everyone else in the world. She could hardly see how more isolation could cure this.

Of course she had visited him since the night he told her about their house in Lyon, of the promise of their future. But these visits had become shorter and scarcer. And during all that lonely time she had to suffer at the Opera House, her only consolation was the ring on her right hand. And Meg. Meg proved to be almost invaluable during those two weeks.

Christine had waited for two days before she actually saw Meg, however, or Madame Giry, for that matter. During that short time, common sense had still outweighed the need to visit Erik (and possibly betray him to authorities). Unlike the previous week, when it seemed that Christine spent half the day commuting to and from the graveyard, those two days had been terribly stationary. It was an enormous relief to have a distraction from the rumours and the fact that previous 'friends' now seemed to avoid her.

"Where on earth have you been?" she had demanded impatiently the moment Meg stepped through the door to the dormitory. Christine stood up and helped a broadly grinning Meg unpack a small bag she had been carrying, tossing her possessions haphazardly into the dresser next to her bed.

"Well now I'll have to reorganise this mess!" Meg said indignantly, and reached into the drawer in an attempt to do so- but Christine wasn't having it. She had grabbed Meg's hands and stared ferociously into her eyes, but her pretence of anger had fallen away the second Meg's eyes had glanced at Christine's right hand, and she had shrieked as loudly as she had when Christine had last confided in her.

This time, however, Christine's response was one of equal volume. The two girls clutched at the ring and the finger and the hand in what Madame Giry would have seen to be an entirely improper way.

Finally, Christine had pulled away from the hug she had somehow fallen into and glared at Meg with such sudden irritation that the other girl was bewildered.

"What's wrong?" she had said in confusion, but smiled immediately upon Christine's response.

"Where have you been? I've wanted to tell you about this for two days!"

The jubilation Christine had felt just moments ago had now faded considerably, and she was beginning to feel quite hurt by whatever indifference had pulled Meg away. She had dropped her gaze to her hands and begun to tug the ring distractedly around her finger.

Her eyes had lifted in surprise as Meg's hand had suddenly grabbed her own, stopping the ring's slow rotation, and met the other girl's pleading gaze with her own.

"Christine… you don't understand!" Meg's eyes were quite wide and eager; Christine knew with a touch of weary annoyance that she really couldn't blame her friend, no matter what the reason. "_Maman_ dragged me away last Wednesday to Lyon!"

Christine's own eyes had widened dramatically upon this unexpected declaration, and she clasped Meg's hand tightly.

"Of course she told me about your engagement!" (Here Meg had squeaked and bounced on her toes, blonde hair flying off her shoulders.) "She seemed to think it would be best for someone else to tell me. I can't think why. Thought it would give me 'time to understand' or something."

Christine had smiled widely at this. Madame Giry was unnaturally perceptive.

"I can't believe you are to be married, and I haven't even met your fiancé, and you're going to move away from the Opera House! Oh, I will miss you!"

The smile had dropped instantaneously from Christine's face at Meg's last words, and she pulled her hands away from Meg's quickly, turning to check that the door to the dormitory was shut. Thankfully it was, and Christine turned back with a sigh of relief. More gentle now, facing the confused Meg, she had taken her hands once more and warned her not to speak of these matters within the Opera House.

"I love you, Meg, and trust you implicitly," she had said carefully, "but you know how much trouble I'd be in if those gossips found out what I'm planning to do."

"Of course," Meg had said solemnly, and sat down on Christine's bed. "I can't believe you aren't going to stay here, though," she said sadly, avoiding Christine's gaze.

"What were you doing in Lyon, anyway?" Christine asked quickly, not only to distract Meg (and herself) from her pending departure but also out of growing interest.

"We were inspecting your new house, of course," Meg said brightly, quickly distracted by the memory. "It's wonderful," she sighed. "It used to belong to my great-aunt, you know."

"What?" Christine asked, bewildered. Had this great-aunt somehow been the 'contact in Lyon' Erik had spoken of?

Meg was oblivious to any particular confusion on Christine's behalf. "Well, she died a few years ago, leaving _Maman_ her house. I wanted to live there, you know, but we didn't have the money to support us away from the Opera House. It's really near the Lyon Opera House, actually, and that area is simply beautiful-"

Christine had smiled quietly to herself as Meg chattered on about the wonders of Lyon; so Madame Giry had been Erik's contact after all. What an absolutely wonderful woman. She frowned as a sudden thought came to her.

"Did Erik pay Madame Giry for the house?" she had said abruptly, interrupting Meg.

After a moment of confusion, it seemed that Meg remembered just who Erik was, and she nodded, providing Christine with some relief.

"We are also allowed to visit you whenever we wish," she smiled, clapping her hands. "I daresay you'll never be able to get me to leave!"

"I would want you to stay for as long as you could," Christine said happily, and the two girls had spent the rest of that afternoon talking about the house and examining Christine's ring.

* * *

It was growing dark in Christine's dressing room those weeks later- though she only noticed because her eyes had started to strain to see the piece of paper she had been examining for a good part of an hour. It had been four days since she had last found an opportunity to visit Erik, four long, tedious days. She had begun to feel a kind of tired ache, as if the pain of their separation was tangible, physical. Her attention at rehearsals had wandered considerably, her dancing had shown obvious evidence of a lack of concentration; overall she was distracted, and she barely cared when Madame Giry scolded her for it- though she accepted the ballet mistress' apology attentively later, if only to soothe the woman's conscience.

All Christine wanted was to leave the Opera Populaire and spend all her time with Erik, with her husband. She was impatient to be married, and irritated by her inability to discuss the wedding with her fiancé.

Spending time with Meg had begun to lose its appeal in the last few days, when her constant questioning about the wedding became a source of dread to Christine. The truth was that she did not know when it would be held, or where, or who would be invited- if anyone. She did not know if they could be married in a church by a priest, though Erik surely knew that a church was what she wished for. At least she had been able to describe the dress for Meg- though this had prompted uncomfortable questions about where it had come from, and how it had been tailored exactly for her.

And so Christine had taken to sitting alone in her dressing room between rehearsals, gazing listlessly at the mirror and at the vase of withered roses she couldn't bare to throw away. Petals crunched underfoot whenever she walked across the floor, and she knew she was being very silly, but she felt that some greatly climatic moment had been reached between Erik and herself those two weeks ago, and it had now faded after the unsatisfying and infrequent visits, with the time the couple had been forced to stay apart.

A source of comfort had been discovered that morning when Christine had picked out a dress she hadn't worn for a while and a scrap of paper came fluttering from the bodice and onto the floor. That piece of paper- now she lit a lamp in order to see it better- was a self-portrait of her husband, the one true image she had seen. That morning she had picked up the paper from amongst the dried rose petals with mild curiosity, but had almost cried once it was unfolded, revealing the portrait.

How wonderful to have just this one picture, this one glimpse behind Erik's mask. He had not, of course, given Christine this self-portrait, just as her few sightings of his face had been unintentional on his behalf, but she preferred this small scrap of paper to the mystery left by his mask.

_But when will he feel secure enough to remove the mask?_ Christine asked herself for the thousandth time, clenching her fingers and then relaxing them with effort, mindful of the paper. Would it be at their wedding? It hadn't happened like she'd wistfully hoped it would, when he had proposed. Would he simply never trust her?

Christine let her frustration grow; she did not feel any inclination to stop it. Perhaps she should refuse to remove her corset on their wedding night. Tit for tat, an eye for an eye she could say, and maybe that would remove his mask.

She swung around, red-cheeked with embarrassment at the nature of her thoughts, as she heard her doorknob being twisted. Indignation quickly joined her mortification; as Monsieur Reyer (among others) seemed to assume the right to enter her dressing room unannounced, she had started to lock the door at all times, whether in the room or out. Did nobody knock anymore?

"Who is it?" she asked loudly, staying resolutely in her seat.

However, no reply came from the other side of the locked door. Christine shook her head and settled back, turning to face the mirror, when suddenly she heard the unmistakable creak that was her door opening.

"But it was-" she gasped, standing and twisting herself around, but the words died in her mouth as it unceremoniously fell open.

"Locked?" Erik asked with a smile, holding a key in the air, away from the folds of his black cloak. He slipped the key into some pocket before removing the hood from his head and moving towards Christine, who remained frozen with disbelief. As he came closer she suddenly broke free of her trance and tripped forward into his ready arms, throwing her hands around his neck and grasping him tightly, assuring herself of the reality of his presence.

Her feet barely touched the ground, she buried her head into Erik's cloak, his smell, and suddenly she pushed away from him with an unexpected strength, causing his arms to release her in surprise.

"Have you locked the door?" she asked urgently, running to it and checking, even after his affirmative answer. She turned back to him, a mixture of joy and exasperation fighting for predominance within her. "How could you risk being seen?" she cried, her tone tinged with a worried anger, and she placed her hands on her hips in an unconscious mimicry of Madame Giry.

Erik bowed his head, though whether in silent apology or to mask a smile, Christine couldn't tell.

"It has been days, Christine," he said softly, apologetically, and she knew that she could hardly judge him. It wasn't as if Erik had been vigorously watched and warned by Madame Giry like she had.

She walked back to him and placed her hands into his, and somehow he felt the crushed paper in her palm through his black gloves.

"What are you holding?" he asked with a smile. "Some new letter from our favourite Monsieur Reyer?"

He tugged the paper from Christine's reluctant fist with an exaggerated effort that she knew he didn't have to employ; the Master of Trapdoors and all kinds of trickery could surely spirit away a piece of paper, a mere parlour trick. Perhaps it was a good thing that Erik appeared to be in a humorous mood.

She lowered her eyes to rest on the back of the crumpled paper as Erik began to unfold it. Once he had recognised the portrait for what it was, however, he tore the rest open with some sudden panic, or rage, and flung it on the dressing room table. Christine flinched as Erik swung away from her, and tried to paste a placating expression on her face.

"What-" Erik began, then stopped, his breathing becoming harsher. He tried again. "What are you doing with this?"

Christine stood on her toes in an attempt to read his expression from behind his shoulder, in the reflection of the mirror perhaps, but quickly stopped as she found it to be impossible. Whatever angle she took, that wretched mask was in the way.

"I-" she began, trying to pull some innocent excuse out of the air, something that would calm him, make him turn around and look at her with forgiveness, anything but this cold fury. But nothing came to mind. And she began to feel righteous anger growing inside her chest.

"I found it with the pictures," she said with a shallow calm, trying to contain her ire and finding an icy front.

"You weren't supposed to see this," Erik said angrily, shaking his head, facing the mirror.

Was he looking at himself? Christine still couldn't see.

"See what?" she began, volume adding itself to her words as she continued, as her control slowly disintegrated. "See your face? See the face of my fiancé?"

Erik didn't respond to this, and Christine felt herself begin to tremble with a frustration that had been slowly gathering for weeks.

"Take it off," she pleaded, stepping forward and grabbing the sleeve of Erik's cloak. He didn't move. Christine felt the hot, angry tears begin to slide down her cheeks. She threw her hands off his sleeve in aggravation and held them in the air, in some desperate plea- though to whom she did not know, for Erik wasn't facing her. The silence that met her actions broke through the anger, and Christine dropped her arms once more, staring miserably at Erik's back. "Doesn't it tell you something, anything at all, that I took the portrait without a mask?" she asked quietly, wiping the tears from her chin with an unsteady hand.

"It shows me-" he began, but then stopped, possibly ashamed of his icy tone, possibly to avoid some hurtful remark. "I-" he said, but his voice seemed to fail him. He turned around very slowly, and Christine was devastated by the mixture of humiliation, pain and shame in his eyes as he looked at her tear-streaked face. "I don't want you to see me like that."

"Like what?" she asked scathingly, some of the anger escaping as she bit back the overwhelming sense of pity flooding through her. She was challenging him, deliberately trying to provoke him, to discover something, anything at all.

Without another word, Erik turned and swept from the room, leaving Christine so shocked and distressed that later she couldn't remember if he had somehow unlocked the door without her noticing or if he had disappeared through the mirror that now stood there silently, mocking her.

He had left the picture on the table, and Christine wandered over the dried petals, tears streaming down her face, and tucked the crumpled page tenderly into her bodice, promising herself with a curious detachment that she would remember to remove it later this time.

* * *

**A/N: Oh no, not the dreaded angst! And they were so happily engaged. Well, something has to happen to the mask, doesn't it? You know, I think Erik's the one who can't "even dare to look", but the poor guy's gonna "burn in hell" for a while if he can't "find the man behind the mask" himself, if you ask me. Or maybe I just gratuitously destroyed a gorgeous song. **

**Par ailleurs… (In other news)**

**Woah! I'm watching this (kind of strange, but somehow addictive) French musical version of the hunchback of notre dame (called Notre Dame de Paris) and it's AWESOME, but there's this one scene that just irrevocably reminded me of Phantom. Quasimodo's being publicly humiliated and is pleading for water (in song, of course) and it's so heart-breaking. The actor, as well as having the usual deformity of a hunchback, also wears heavy makeup effectively disfiguring his face. Esmerelda takes pity on him and gives him a drink- though she doesn't remind me at all of Christine, I have to say. Aside from the fact that they're both performers and beautiful. Her benevolence prompts Quasimodo into singing yet another song, Belle, which strangely brought me to think of the third musical in the deformed-man-loves-beautiful-outsider-girl set: Beauty and the Beast. Isn't it amazing how all three evoke such comparisons to the others? Oh, and if you get the chance to see Notre Dame de Paris, SEE IT. It's worth it for the strangely attractive Gringoire (strangely attractive due to his long, untamed locks and insane eyeliner.)**

**Hope you liked, (and hope you review :)),**

**Froody**


	34. Agreement

Not even the savage ache that had been viciously gathering in her limbs could motivate Christine to move from where she slumped miserably over her dressing room table. Her tired eyes wouldn't have found a clock even if she had tried, but she hardly cared about the length of time she had passed alone in this room. Nobody had attempted to find her since she had closed the dressing room door behind herself that afternoon, eager to look at her picture and feel the unsolicited sense of loss clamp back onto her heart.

One had found her, of course, but it had hardly been an attempt. Erik did not ask, he knew, and he had come through the door like he always came into her life: with ease and a flourish.

She slowly slid her gaze from the dark polish of the table and onto the mirror, and into the mirror, and saw the other, more important mirror silently standing in its reflection.

She had been entirely unreasonable. That now seemed obvious to Christine, after the initial shock and rage had faded with the long, dark hours. Every physical discomfort she now felt was completely overpowered by deep regret. She was still so naïve. She knew it. Erik's face had invited nothing but torment and tragedy since his birth, so many years longer than she had lived, than she could remember. Who was she to presume that one declaration of love could cause a lifetime of pain to be forgotten?

Who was she to demand anything from Erik?

But could she enter into a marriage like this? Could she say her vows with such a manifestation of mistrust silently standing at her elbow? Could happiness truly find such a couple in the years to come, once her youth and innocence had faded, when one hoped that a pleasing exterior could be quietly replaced by love and trust?

Christine kept her eyes locked onto the reflection of the mirror as she slowly and painfully began to lift her chin from the table and stretch her aching muscles. She sat stiffly upright in the hard wooden chair and moved her gaze, glaring heatedly at the mirror. Of course Erik was physically attracted to her. She shook her head slightly to free her curls. But the small voice gnawed at her still.

"He will love me when I am as old and grey as Monsieur Reyer," she chided herself, trying to imagine the future without releasing the flood of dread that threatened to surge forward. She shook her head at herself, and sighed.

He loved her for more than her beauty, and Christine knew it, but she couldn't banish those darker suspicions. She felt as though her fiancé's obsession with his appearance had crept into her.

_Vanity is a sin, vanity is a sin, vanity is a sin..._

But of course that was yet another lesson that had never been taught in this place. The stage was barely an area that valued modesty.

The red ire faded from Christine's cheeks and her eyes returned to the mirror behind the mirror, ever empty and silent. Erik's face had been the subject of too much antagonism. She could not bear to let it come between them in this way. Perhaps it was she who refused to trust. If she could calm herself and allow Erik to keep his mask until a time when he felt sufficiently comfortable enough to remove it, then perhaps it would be a symbol of her trust in him.

She sank into a glassy stupor after the first few minutes of fruitless observation. The dancing flames that she could see from the corner of her eye echoed the flashing constellation that was imprinted into the back of her eyelids when they began to droop. Then the stars were left alone, trailing into a silent night, and she slept.

* * *

_A voice from another realm answered her again, disembodied, passionate, powerful. She swept around and around in her trailing white gown, peering into the shadows for an angel she had sought before, hoping for a physical manifestation of her teacher, one that never appeared. The wild joy washed through her delicate frame with the same familiar force as always. She could feel her eyes blazing and she knew that she could be proud tonight. She felt that she deserved her teacher's approval. She knew that she deserved more than just a voice. She wanted her strange angel to come to her._

_"Hide no longer!" she cried, circling the room, feeling unusually daring. His agreement was barely a surprise to her. She felt too exhilarated, too powerful to be refused tonight. _

_And yet she could only feel a bizarre detachment, so far from elation, when she looked into the mirror and saw a man. She seemed to slide towards the mirror without any movement on her behalf. She saw his lips move and heard the voice of her angel at once, yet she could hardly connect the two senses. She saw a white mask. She wandered like a bride in a trance, a girl robed in white approaching the end of a world of innocence, and she stepped over the threshold and into another mirror…_

Christine woke with a start and raised her head from the table so quickly that blackness swirled sickeningly across her vision. She shook her head groggily and gingerly stretched her back, remembering her dream with a frown. With a discomforting sense of déjà vu, she suddenly remembered the noise that had woken her, and glanced almost reluctantly into the mirror before her.

Erik was behind her, of course. One too many mirrors had slid open in her dream.

He wore the mask over a face that held only a resigned affection. Christine quickly groped a heavy, uncooperative hand over her tangled hair and sighed.

"I am sorry," Erik said, head bowed, the slight smile having been wiped from his face with Christine's sigh.

She stood in response, wincing as several cracks came from her cramped limbs, and turned around to face him. She reached a hand to his face and rested it against his exposed cheek. "I'm afraid you've stolen my apology."

Erik lifted his eyes and smiled softly at her. He did not remove his mask and she did not ask him to. They seemed to reach a silent agreement.

* * *

The next few days hurried past with the frantic speed that always accompanied the prelude to an opening night. Christine felt permanently breathless, constantly rushed from one rehearsal to another, hastening to her dressing room whenever the smallest gap appeared in her schedule, racing back to a meal that Madame Giry refused to excuse her from. 

Erik was rarely to be found in those spare moments Christine spent in her dressing room. She had little knowledge of his whereabouts these days, forcing the questions from her mind when they met; she was unwilling to create another rift between them so close to their wedding. And so she was left to wonder, for Erik certainly did not volunteer this information. He was, of course, aware that his recent occupation of his old home would be met with enormous disapproval from the worried Christine. His silence suited her, gave her an excuse to leave him be. She somehow preferred not to know.

Left alone in her dressing room, Christine spent her spare time in the wedding dress that Erik had brought to the Opera House at her request. She did not know when the marriage was to take place, or where, or any of the important details, but trusted uneasily (quite in the manner of a bride-to-be) in the diligence of her fiancé. She was left to ponder her reflection in her mirror, trying not to look past the white dress and her pale cheeks and further into the glass. She couldn't quite stop herself from wondering if anyone else gazed back at her with pride.

At first she had needed Meg to help her slip on the heavy dress, finding it difficult to button the tight back. She wondered at the irony of the dress' requirement of her stiffest corset, considering Erik's aversion to the garments. Soon, however, she trained her nimble fingers to fasten the buttons quite readily, which suited both herself and Meg. Meg's dedication and silent ballet practise had finally been noticed by her proud mother, who allowed herself a tight smile while giving her daughter a leading dance role in the upcoming performance of _Manon_, the acclaimed opera by Massenet.

Meg had been thrilled. Christine had experienced no jealousy at her friend's success but beamed with true elation whenever she caught sight of Meg's graceful form through the forest of arms and costumes from her own familiar position in the chorus. She was unutterably glad that Meg had found such success for herself. Christine knew that the elevated status and the work that came with the role would prove distracting for her friend once she had left.

Although she felt herself wincing along with the rest of the chorus whenever La Carlotta took to the stage and manhandled the delicate arias with unnecessary vigour, Christine could hardly feel envious of the diva. Her future position at the Lyon Opera House came constantly to mind; what need had she of a starring role in this opera?

Still, she could hardly refrain from designing an improved version of Carlotta's role for herself during rehearsals. She felt that some of Erik's musical pretentiousness had burrowed into her own mind. At least these uncharitable thoughts could distract her from the cumulative tedium of the chorus.

Finally, at the end of another rehearsal, just as Christine turned to slip away to her dressing room, Madame Giry beckoned unexpectedly. Curious, Christine followed the ballet mistress to her private room, and sat expectantly in an armchair before the crackling fireplace as the woman closed her door carefully behind them.

"Madame?" Christine said finally, unsure of the current situation. Madame Giry still had not turned to face her waiting companion.

"You are to be married the day after next," the woman finally said, her voice sounding oddly muffled, and Christine's eyes widened even through her joy as Madame Giry turned and revealed the tears trailing down her cheeks.

"So- so soon?" Christine asked numbly, staring with faint wonder at the woman's tears.

Madame Giry smiled feebly and, tugging a handkerchief from some unseen pocket, blew her nose before speaking again. "You have never seemed to appear on the stage for more than one performance in recent times," she laughed, wiping her eyes.

Christine only stared blankly, suddenly remembering the next day's opening performance of _Manon_. As Madame Giry gave a definite sniff, Christine finally broke into a radiant smile, and she began to laugh as well.

"This is- this is wonderful!" she cried, throwing her hands up to her glowing cheeks and beaming at the tearful woman. Her smile suddenly disappeared, however, as the enormity of the situation reached her. "But the arrangements! I have not been told where the wedding is going to take place! Are you and Meg coming?" she asked suddenly, the colour disappearing from her face.

Madame Giry shook her head and replied, rather contrarily, "Of course we are! Do you really believe that I would allow Erik to marry you without my presence?" Her mocking severity failed to drag a smile from the fraught Christine, and the woman, tears forgotten, knelt beside her. "You do not need to worry about anything," Madame Giry said with a more familiar sternness, "but the performance tomorrow night."

"Spoken like a true ballet mistress," Christine murmured, and managed a small smile.

"Oh dear," Madame Giry said faintly, clutching at the side of the armchair. "You are really getting married."

A look of wondering concern travelled slowly to Christine's face, and she frowned in confusion at the woman beside her. "Is it such a dreadful fate?" she asked slowly, only partly in humour.

"Dreadful fate?" Madame Giry asked, regaining strength. "It is the happiest and most wonderful thing that could ever have happened! You are happy, Erik is exultant- my world is finally complete!"

* * *

**A/N: This story's almost 'finally complete' too, which is rather lucky for me since I'm about to enter the terrible and havoc-ridden world of the last year of school, but also sad. I imagine that there will be just two or three more chapters, leaving me to finish on a strange number of chapters, but what can you do? **

**I am so excited about writing the next chapter. Oh yes. It's gonna be pretty awesome. Hope you liked this one, and to all readers in Australia, happy Aussie Day for yesterday and enjoy the last few days of holidays!**

**And I'd like to make a special mention of one of my faithful reviewers, UndermyAngelofMusic'sWings, whose E/C story, "Lest We Forget", inspired me to write this chapter last night. I think that this story's been a little overlooked by most phans. It's amazingly captivating, displays a darker, more Leroux-type Erik, and gives an incredibly convincing light to a more determined (but still lovably naïve) Christine.**

**Thanks guys! Please review. There are only a couple of chapters left. Motivate me, huh? ;) **

**-Froody **


	35. Performance

Christine dug her nails into the back of the velvet seat in front of her, trying valiantly to ignore Meg's (almost) silent hiccoughs of laughter next to her. Christine herself was barely holding her composure, her stomach muscles beginning to ache, and treacherously shake.

Who else but La Carlotta could provoke such a rude response from her audience? Her swooping vowels and vicious consonants had finally overcome the varying self restraint of many members of the chorus. Those who had abstained from the uncouth act of simply standing and leaving during the last few minutes were either impenetrably courteous or finding an unintended form of entertainment from the diva.

It was just a few hours until the opera began; indeed, the reception for the ever-prestigious event of an opening night had already commenced. A chaotic flurry of last-minute preparation had left the cast, particularly the dancers, without a moment to spare until now. It was a special tradition (undoubtedly instated by Carlotta herself) for the leading soprano to 'grace' the theatre with selected arias in the time preceding an opening night, and the formidable soprano was certainly making use of her opportunity.

It was unusual for Meg and Christine to watch these tedious performances, encouraged though they were to attend by the doting managers (safely outside the theatre welcoming guests to the reception). However, as the knot of sorrow tightened in Christine's stomach, as this was to be her final performance at the Opera Populaire, Meg had convinced her to take part in this last tradition.

"Maybe Carlotta's voice will help to ease your sadness," Meg had said with a wicked grin. "At least it will make you glad to be leaving this place!"

Christine had smiled back, but already she could feel the pangs of grief and her eyes had begun to well mercilessly. She could scarcely believe that she was leaving her home of so many years, let alone her best friend.

And now as she sat and glued her eyes furiously to an empty space well above the spectacle on the stage, she could already miss the childish fun she had always enjoyed with Meg. The ache she felt building in response to her narrowly suppressed laughter became sharper- yet she no longer wanted to smile.

At least she seemed to have been (almost forcibly) excused from all the stress and responsibility of her wedding. She didn't know if she could have controlled her emotions under any more pressure.

A strangled gasp from beside her drew no immediate response from Christine, but she suddenly became aware that Meg's shuddering had turned into utter stillness, and she clapped her hands over her mouth in shock as she followed her friend's wide eyes to the stage.

Sometime in the last few moments, Carlotta's singing had transformed into terrified shrieking, and Christine watched with disbelief as the heavy woman was lifted higher and higher off the stage, a rope wrapped around her middle and hauled up, it seemed, by some unseen stagehand.

Members of the crew began to stumble onto the stage with bewildered faces, shouting angrily into the rafters; but their words were covered by the tremendous screeching of the airborne soprano. The woman swung pendulously over the stage, kicking her legs beneath her voluminous costume, her wig dropping unceremoniously into the orchestra pit, now devoid of terrified musicians, who were scurrying over the sides in case Carlotta was abruptly released.

Her face turned redder and redder, and Christine stood up, so far from the stage, hands still clapped over her mouth. As she thrust a trembling hand in front of her, palm outward facing, nobody was watching her, entranced by the hypnotising oscillation of La Carlotta. But she knew that it was no coincidence when seconds later the diva began to be lowered, her shrieking reaching a new pitch as stage crew scattered below her.

When the woman's stockinged feet had finally landed solidly on the stage, shoes having been kicked off long ago, Christine collapsed back into her chair even as Carlotta collapsed backwards onto her rump. Christine could feel the row of chair squeak beneath her as Meg leant forward eagerly, her laughter beginning anew.

"Was that amusing?" Christine asked rather tiredly, but was slightly mollified when Meg reassured her that it most certainly was.

"I was looking forward to a last performance in this venue," Christine said sadly as they trailed near the back of the small crowd following Carlotta as she stormed towards the double doors leading to the entrance hall.

Meg said nothing in response; Christine noted that she looked rather gloomy herself, and then remembered her friend's lead dancing role. Although this certainly made for a memorable last night at the Opera Populaire, Christine couldn't help but feel slightly antagonistic towards the phantom responsible for the recent spectacle. Did Erik so desperately feel the need to reprise of his Opera Ghost role? Was it necessary to sacrifice the night's performance?

Christine had to admit that Carlotta's pale, teary and fearsome entrance into a roomful of elite members of society was a performance like no other, and her growing anger was soothed as Meg's disappointment suddenly became another bout of muffled giggling.

"The ghost!" the diva cried dramatically, clutching at her bosom as all other voices died in shock at this sudden exclamation. Christine watched as the two managers, looking decidedly pasty, shoved their way to the front of the champagne-wielding spectators.

"What ghost?" Firmin said with feeble cheer in a miserably failing attempt to distract the diva's considerable audience.

"What ghost?" Carlotta screeched, swelling beneath her blue lace and satin costume, stamping her unshod foot onto the marble floor. "What ghost?!"

The managers seemed to diminish somehow as the outraged soprano leaned perilously forward, stabbing a finger to their collective chest.

"'These things do happen,' you said when you first arrived," Carlotta breathed dangerously, her words as clear and sharp as they were ever pronounced. "You told me that you had captured the man who insulted me at my last performance. But you lied!"

This last exclamation was shouted into the silent entrance hall, and, after a brief pause, was met with a wildfire of whispers from its shocked occupants. Carlotta straightened and tossed her magnificent head, curls fastened away behind a cap now bare of its wig, ignoring the hissing around her, which was silenced as her painted lips opened once more.

"I will not perform under such conditions!" the prima donna cried throatily. "Do not expect to hear my voice under this roof again!" And with that, Carlotta spun on her heel, followed immediately by her many underlings, and as her stockinged feet thudded defiantly through the door, the entrance hall seemed to erupt into chaos.

Christine stared at Meg, who shook her head as if to communicate her resignation, and the two girls clutched at each other as members of the theatre began to push and jostle past them in the sudden pandemonium.

"What will happen now?" Christine shouted, but Meg's wide eyes held no answers, and as a crowd suddenly formed around them, of bewildered guests and angry performers, they had little choice but to mimic the crowd and focus on the distraught forms of the two managers, whose flustered conversation could be heard even over the uproar.

"Ruined, Andre... give refunds? How could we…"

"The show must go on! … only an hour until the performance?"

"Christine Daaé will do it again, of course!"

Christine had hardly had time to comprehend Firmin's latest remark before the man himself had jostled his way to her elbow, and begun to pull her towards the small clearing in which an impatient Andre waited.

"Monsieur…?" she said, feeling as if in a daze, and suddenly it seemed as if thousands of eyes were fixed directly on her. She felt two hands settle on her shoulders and gazed distractedly to her left, only to be met by the desperate gleam in the eye of Firmin. She found an identical attitude to her right, harboured by the other manager, and she felt little choice but to face the excited crowd before her.

"The opera will commence at the planned time, my dear ladies and gentlemen," Andre declared, smiling through severely clenched teeth. "The acclaimed voice of Christine Daaé will more than improve the leading role of Manon!"

The owner of that acclaimed voice tried desperately to appear less shocked (and rather terrified) than she felt at that moment, and even managed to nod courteously at the uncertain applause followed by the manager's announcement. Christine tried to feel encouraged by the delighted faces of some guests, who had undoubtedly seen her similarly unexpected performance in _Hannibal_, and avoided the eyes of those who were loudly exclaiming their disapproval of the change.

As Madame Giry suddenly appeared before her, swiping the clenched hands of the managers off her shoulders, and began to lead her hurriedly out of the entrance hall, Christine didn't dare to look for even Meg's face amid the jealous crowd of dancers. Instead, she kept her eyes firmly at her feet as she tripped her way through the ball gowns towards the door, scarcely breathing until she had been tugged into an unoccupied hallway.

"Mon Dieu," she said weakly, rubbing her red wrist with a trembling hand as Madame Giry released her.

"You have but a moment, _ma chérie_, before it will be extremely necessary to prepare you for the performance," the woman said with an unusually kind smile, placing a cool hand underneath Christine's chin and meeting her eyes. "Do you know the part of Manon?"

Christine paused a moment before nodding, lowering her eyes, filled with a sudden uncertainty. "Certainly I know the part, Madame, but…."

"But what?" Madame Giry asked steadily.

"I have never been taught the songs."

"Do you know the words?"

"Yes, but-"

"Do you know the music?"

"I suppose-"

"Then what does it matter if you haven't been taught the songs?"

"Madame," Christine said forcefully, glaring into the woman's eyes. "Erik has not shown me the proper breathing techniques. He has not instructed me on the emotional subtleties of the music. He has not taught me how to perform the arias, or how to reach the high sections, or how to phrase the lyrics. I am to play the challenging role of Manon in less than an hour with no preparation. This is not like _Hannibal_! Erik had been working me through the arias endlessly before that night's performance. I am not even certain that my voice is of adequate quality to perform this role tonight!"

Christine felt breathless after her outburst, and could have cried at the least provocation. She could feel tears begin to form even then, and knew that the opera was certain to be a disaster. She would be lucky if the Lyon Opera House did not hear of her appalling performance and refuse to allow her a part in the chorus, let alone a lead soprano position.

"Do you really think that Erik would have provoked Carlotta quite so vigorously just now if he did not believe that your voice was ready to perform the role of Manon?" Madame Giry asked severely, her hand moving to grip Christine's shoulder forcefully.

"He has not given me a singing lesson in weeks!" Christine cried, ignoring the woman's logic.

But Madame Giry had more to say. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and Christine was startled out of her melancholy by the woman's next words.

"You are to be married tonight, Christine," Madame Giry said quietly, engaging Christine at once with this unexpected statement. "You accepted maturity along with that ring around your finger when you agreed to become a wife. No daughter of mine," the woman began, utmost severity imprinted into the faint lines in her face, "will be dependent on a man. I expect you to accept your own responsibilities without reliance on Erik, Christine. I expect you to believe in yourself."

A calmness began to fill Christine as she nodded, knowing that the woman's admonishments were wise. Of course she had been forced to mature in the past month, involved in such a complex relationship with such a complex man. But she could not deny that she still relied on the authoritative figures in her life as she had when she was a little girl, in need of comfort and assurance and someone to reveal her own talents to her.

"How am I going to abandon my dependence on you, Madame?" she whispered suddenly, feeling even closer to tears at the thought of leaving this harsh, commanding woman, whose expectations and reprimands had protected her during her years at the Opera Populaire, whose kindness had helped to diminish her initial anguish in the respectable hours of the daytime.

She couldn't bare to look up in the ensuing silence, sure that she would lose all control of her fraught emotions, and suddenly she felt a pair of shaking arms wrap tightly around her, and she clung to Madame Giry like she had when she had first come to the Opera House, when the nightmares refused to abandon their grip on the miserable little girl, except now they were both shaking and crying and it was not a nightmare that plagued them but a marriage more like a dream.

"_Ma chérie_," Madame Giry kept repeating, pressing her face into Christine's soft curls, stroking her back with one hand and holding the other in a tight fist. Finally she relaxed her grip, pulling back and brushing a few strands of hair off Christine's tear-streaked cheeks. "I am sure that Erik would be most startled to see me so emotional!" she said with a shaky laugh, wiping her own eyes with a handkerchief and Christine laughed with her. She had never seen the strong woman cry before. She was not sure that anyone in the Opera House had.

"But what time is it now?" Madame Giry exclaimed, worry beginning to line her face as she gathered her composure, and grabbed Christine once more, pulling them both down the corridor towards the backstage area with haste. Although Christine knew that the woman had been right, that she should have more trust in her own abilities, she could not stop a crowd of determined butterflies from winging their way to her stomach.

* * *

**A/N: I got to hang Carlotta from the ceiling like a piñata! Yay! Well, with the help of Erik, I suppose. But still… it was fun. **

**But seriously, how utterly terrified would you be if you were in Christine's shoes? I mean, I know that this has happened before; in fact, if she had ended up performing as the Countess in _Il Muto_, she would have been in exactly the same position. I don't think Erik would have approached her for a singing lesson before the play (due to the minor awkwardness of their previous meeting), so she would have been quite unprepared had the Opera Ghost refrained from killing Joseph Buquet. And then, I suppose, this story wouldn't have happened…**

**Oh well. I'm sure Erik knows what he's doing. **

**Thanks for the reviews! I seriously appreciate them. And if you're reading the story but haven't reviewed yet, you may as well leave me a comment on this chapter because there aren't many left!!**

**-Froody**


	36. Love

**Wow. I must be the worst and most cruel author in the history of phanphic. But as I crawl, weeping, on my knees and pull at the silken cloth of your long, flowing gown, feel pity for a girl in her last year of school. I tried to finish this before year 12 started and almost succeeded, but alas, alack, be happy it's finally here!**

**NB: I am not responsible for any poetry in this story, so thanks to the wonderful Alfred Lord Tennyson and E E Cummings. **

**The final chapter.**

**Enjoy.

* * *

**

"_Et c'est là l'histoire de Manon Lescaut_!"

A single tear rolled down Christine's face as she sank back into the arms of a sobbing Piangi, and the audience roared. As Christine waited for the curtains, she lay, strangely impassive, weariness met with elation, pride, balanced into a temporary nothing.

She had sung well, and with an emotional intensity that had surprised her more than her captivated audience. Finally she was confronted with the proof that she had grown during the last month. What perfect timing. The night's performances had barely begun, even as the curtain dropped and the music swelled, met with a thunderous applause that was soon muted behind velvet.

Christine stumbled slightly as Piangi released her, brushing his thick fingers over his jacket, his melodramatic expression of woe disappearing immediately, replaced with the glower that had greeted her all evening. She couldn't ignore the resentful tittering from behind the palms of the dancers, but it was easy to forgive them their jealousy with the memory of her last conversation with Erik floating through her head.

Leaning against that statue on the roof, Erik's thick cloak shielding the delicate material of her dress from a bronze sheen of ice, she had pressed her cold palm to Erik's face and smiled softly. No flinch had shaken her hopes loose, no sudden shield flew across his eyes; no, he gazed at her silently, then turned to kiss her palm.

"Whatever is your surname, Monsieur Phantom?" she had asked light-heartedly, while inside she glowed, effervescent with joy.

Erik had remained silent, smiling, then covered her hand with his glove. Christine had felt his next words through his cheek.

"I know what it will be tomorrow night," he said, gazing tenderly into her eyes, and she had closed them, burying her smile into his chest as her heart ached with happiness.

The thought that her father's name would survive him and continue into the future filled Christine with a deep, unparalleled joy and contentment. She felt her father approved of her unorthodox fiancé, and could almost hear his blessing. Compared to such harmony, the envy of petty girls could hardly make an impression.

But Christine could not allow herself to sink into raptures now; as the music built to a final crescendo, she swept forward to the centre of the stage and curtsied magnificently, her small hand crushed in Piangi's unforgiving fist, the audience climbing to their feet and roaring their appreciation. Christine blinked against the bright light, staring out to the theatre, determined to remember this last, wonderful experience, her final moments upon the stage of the Opera Populaire.

Her heart seemed to drum in time to the graceful flicking of Monsieur Reyer's baton, and she flung her gaze to Box Five only to find it empty. But she knew better than to doubt Erik's attention on this night; indeed, she could feel his eyes burning into her. She looked suddenly into the very front row of the audience, her pulse quickening, and was shocked to meet the gaze of the delighted Inspector, whose beaming smile seemed at odds with his presence.

She wondered at this turn of events; could it be that the tight-fisted Managers had somehow delivered the man's payment in theatre tickets? She doubted that even Andre could manage that, yet she stared back evenly at the cheerful man, and threw a smile at him as she was tugged backwards, and the curtain began to be lowered for the final time.

After all, what did it matter if the Inspector had been summoned in response to Carlotta's performance earlier that evening? She was to leave in less than two hours, leave the Opera House forever. There was no time for an interview. His investigations would procure nothing, and Carlotta would be left in peace- unlike Christine, who was grabbed once more, this time by a radiant Meg, who clutched two enormous bouquets.

"You were wonderful!" Christine cried before her friend could open her mouth, and threw her arms around Meg's shoulders, defying their broad skirts and the bouquets in a tight embrace.

"You were unparalleled as Manon, Christine," Meg said warmly, and thrust a bouquet at her beaming friend.

"Oh, these are gorgeous!" Christine said happily, but as she surveyed the brilliant array of flowers, she suddenly felt nerves wrench at her insides.

Meg towed her friend to the nearest doorway, pulling her past vibrant flocks of dancers and stagehands and into a quiet, deserted corridor.

Christine could feel herself shaking, but the relief of the sudden cold wall pressing into her shoulder blades allowed her to relax.

"Oh, Christine," Meg sighed, tilting her blonde head happily to observe her friend, "You are much too pale for a bride."

"I am much too young," Christine said severely, and the tension in her muscles flooded away as both girls laughed at the impersonation.

"I was rather surprised that _Maman_ did not make a fuss about your age," Meg said, giggling, pressing her flowers into her chest. "Not to mention the age difference!"

Christine attempted to scowl at her grinning friend, but couldn't seem to chase the smile from her lips.

"Don't say that!" she laughed, pulling at Meg's stiff skirt with false resentment. "Erik is… distinguished."

"Twice your age, more like," Meg said slyly, and squealed as Christine batted her with her bouquet.

"How can you say such things on the very eve of my wedding?" Christine huffed.

"Somebody has to."

"You might have let me know of the indecency of my marriage a little sooner."

Both girls laughed, and leaned against each other in a companionable silence, their twin bouquets dangling on their skirts.

"Who are these from?" Christine asked suddenly, twisting her neck to stare at the flowers. "Madame Giry would not have-"

"They are from me, Mademoiselle, and they are a representative of my appreciation for your performance."

The girls straightened immediately as a man's voice finally alerted them to his presence. Christine's mouth fell open in dismay as she gazed up to find the familiar figure of the Inspector blocking the corridor.

"Mademoiselle, you are leaving," the Inspector said, leaving a question hidden behind his statement. When he received no reply from his efforts, he cleared his throat and continued. "I hope things have not been unpleasant for you since the investigation?"

Christine hid her shock as best she could, wrapping her fingers tightly around her bouquet of flowers in case they should begin to shake. However did he know of her plans to leave the Opera House?

Obviously discomforted by the silence, the Inspector reached up a hand to tug uneasily at his moustache. He cleared his throat once more, and darted a quick smile at Meg, who seemed to have found her composure with more ease than Christine.

"The beautiful Carlotta let me know, of course," he said, trying again to tempt conversation from the silent Christine, whose eyes widened considerably at this revelation.

"La Carlotta?" she said faintly.

"The prima donna herself," the Inspector said quickly, obviously encouraged by this response. "She seemed most delighted to inform the guests of your decision to move to the Lyon Opera House. I, of course," he continued, missing Meg's quick mouthing of the words '_Maman_'s idea,', "was most disheartened to hear the news."

"You flatter me too much," Christine said with more strength, smiling weakly at the man, who shook his head in protest.

"It was a glorious performance," he said, and beamed at both the girls. "It was as if the old ghost was still with us, working his magic, eh?"

Christine and Meg glanced at each other, and nodded as one.

"Simply marvellous," the Inspector said, then excused himself, striding past them and disappearing around the corner at the end of the corridor.

"Madame Giry told Carlotta that I was leaving?" Christine asked Meg as soon as his heavy footsteps had died away, still slightly taken aback by such an unexpected conversation.

"She believed that it would be wiser to create a rumour around the Opera House than to arouse more harmful suspicions if you suddenly just disappeared. Besides, the news certainly distracted Carlotta."

Christine nodded, and allowed herself a small smile, which Meg returned. The next second saw it fly away however, as the girl seemed to remember certain duties that she had neglected, and the skirts barely missed the walls as the two of them raced down the hallway.

* * *

Christine reached inside her bodice and produced the large brass key to her dressing room as they turned the final corner, but suddenly found it unnecessary. There was a crowd gathered around the door, which was inexplicably ajar; but out poked the unmistakeable head of an irate Madame Giry, who reached out to accept an armful of bouquets.

"_Maman_?" Meg called loudly, and the woman's face whipped towards the two approaching girls. As Madame Giry turned, so did the heads of a bustling crowd of handsome gentlemen, and Christine felt a blush sweep across her cheeks.

"The prima donna!" somebody shouted, and Christine found herself having to smile and curtsey her way through the eager men, her costume proving quite the infuriating impediment! As she finally pulled her hand from the lips of the last suitor, a familiar voice rang through the corridor, attracting Christine's dismayed gaze.

"Raoul," she said rather apprehensively, this obvious recognition provoking a jealous murmur from the crowd on her threshold.

"Allow me to talk to you, Christine!" the blond man cried desperately, throwing his empty hands before him in a silent plea. "Please!"

Christine shook her head sadly, ignoring the smirking men before her, and began to push the door closed. But before it clicked into place, she heard the distinctive voice of Raoul once more, crying "Little Lottie!"

"I do hope that he will move on," she said despondently to the two women waiting before her. "I thought that he might have after all this time."

"It has not been so long, my child," Madame Giry said gently, ushering Christine into the centre of the room and beginning to unfasten her ties. "You certainly have a way with men."

Meg giggled, and her mother shot her a reproving glance before smiling herself. Christine threw them both a disparaging glare in the mirror, but broke into laughter at the sight of her own false reproach.

"Be sure to use that face on your children," Meg laughed, "and they will never give you trouble!"

"I will be sure to ask you for constant advice, oh experienced sister," Christine replied sarcastically, gripping the chair in front of her as Madame Giry began to tighten her corset. Manon's costume had been flung over the dressing table behind her, and Meg, who had quickly changed, gathered the white bridal dress into her arms.

"Am I to parade that dress for all the young men outside my door?" Christine asked, horrified at the thought, feeling decidedly uneasy as the two women laughed behind her.

"Of course not!" Meg said, pulling a face. "We have been directed to take you through the mirror!"

Christine glanced back to the mirror, its golden frame as alluring as it always had been. Her eyes fell upon the glass, and she pressed a hand to her mouth as she suddenly caught sight of the rose she had missed, lying unobtrusively next to her costume on her dressing table.

A length of black ribbon shone in the lamplight, tied lovingly around the delicate stem of the flower, which bore no thorns as always. Madame Giry and Meg, who had exchanged glances during the sudden silence, followed Christine's gaze and looked at the rose. The corset strings hung loosely in Madame Giry's fingers, and a contemplative moment passed among the three women, connected by the blood red symbol of love.

Finally, Christine moved her eyes away from the flower, suddenly desperate to see the man who had always provided her with such caring attention, to touch him, to kiss him. Madame Giry seemed to sense the new atmosphere of impatience and began to fasten the corset with renewed vigour.

"You will not be late, _ma chérie_," she reassured the tensed Christine, whose only response was to return her gaze wistfully to the rose.

And finally the strings were tied, the corset cutting restrictively into Christine's body, and yet she did not notice, could hardly feel anything as the beautiful dress was lifted over her head by Meg and pulled into place by her mother. As the last button was fastened and the skirt had been tugged into place, it seemed that Christine could suddenly see herself as a bride. She took a step forwards, towards the mirror, and gazed rapturously at herself, at the tailored dress, which clung to her body perfectly.

The room was filled with awed silence, and Meg stepped forward almost shyly, smiling faintly as Christine lowered her head to aid her friend. Meg slipped the long, white veil atop Christine's curls, her hands shaking, her eyes welling with tears.

Christine could not restrain the smile that blossomed to her lips, and she grasped her friend's quivering hands with the promise of eternal friendship. Meg fell into the proffered embrace with none of a dancer's grace, and Christine clasped her hands across her friend's back with a new-found sanguinity. She pulled back as the snuffling sounds of tears broke the silence, and beamed at her weeping friend, who wiped her hand across her eyes with a shaky smile.

"You will be happy, Christine," Meg whispered, and it was not a question, and Christine knew that her friend told the truth.

"We must leave," Madame Giry said in a rather muffled voice, causing Christine to turn and gaze at the woman with compassion. In response, she gently released Meg's hands and hurried to the dressing table, picking up the rose with a calmness that seemed to contradict all of her previous emotion.

Madame Giry opened the grand old mirror with an abrupt movement, gesturing for the two girls to step through the revealed doorway and into the shadows beyond.

Christine swept forward, leading the way through the familiar, torch-lit passageway. The women travelled all the way to the lake in silence, the bride-to-be feeling elation grab hold of her insides as the location of her wedding became obvious. At the bottom of the marble stairs, a wide, unfamiliar boat greeted the three women, a polished lamp attached brightly to the front. Madame Giry and Meg allowed Christine to climb in first and settle her skirts safely about herself, facing the other women, who steered the boat through the canals with ease.

She could feel the light of Erik's shore burning into her back before her eyes perceived it, and she closed them breathlessly, abandoning herself once more to subtler senses.

When the boat head rocked gently against the pebbled shore, Christine accepted the hand of her best friend, who helped her to her feet with a grace belying the unsteady nature of the boat. Christine focussed her eyes on the pebbles as she lifted her skirts and leapt to dry shore, almost reluctant to spoil her expectations with true vision.

And yet, when her eyes finally lifted and she saw Erik's glorious cavern once more, her spirits soared higher still. Thousands of candles burned in bright stands along the edge of the familiar rooms, their dazzling number assaulting Christine's astounded eyes. She gazed through the candles, and was intrigued to find that nothing else appeared to have changed since her last visit- though the black covers thrown over various objects had disappeared.

Madame Giry pulled gently at her arm, and Christine followed the woman around the shore, her anticipation building as a trail of roses began to appear along the edge of the lake, each tied carefully with black ribbon.

They turned into the room that Christine knew best of all, a room encumbered with books, instruments, the glorious organ- but lacking its usual clutter of manuscript paper. Those piles seemed to have transformed into roses.

Madame Giry finally released her, and Christine stopped walking, suddenly unsure of herself, of what she should do. Timidly, she lifted her gaze from the roses and looked towards the end of the room, where two pairs of shoes had been demanding her attention. She gasped as she saw firstly Erik, who seemed as utterly transfixed as she felt, and then, quickly, her father's old friend!

"Father Nicolas," she breathed in greeting, keeping her eyes fixed solemnly to the ground, a dark blush threatening to ruin her ivory complexion.

Erik looked magnificent.

She desperately tried to clear her thoughts, and looked up once more.

"However did you manage to find me here?" she asked quickly, laughing suddenly as incredulity overcame her bout of shyness. How on earth had Madame Giry managed to track down their old priest, the man who had buried both of her parents, who had secured Christine her life at the Opera Populaire?

"My dear child," came his response, his voice as familiar and comforting as it had been in her childhood. "How could I not be a part of this wonderful event?"

Christine beamed, her eyes brimming, and glanced to Madame Giry, who smiled tearfully at her from the edge of the room.

"Thank you," Christine whispered to the ground, blinking the tears away. It would not do to cry at her wedding.

When she had found control, she gazed up at Erik, whose presence had cried for her attention since her arrival. He stood next to Father Nicolas where the organ stool could previously have been found, his hands behind his back, his black clothes magnificent, meticulously neat, his hair perfectly fixed, his eyes a maelstrom of emotion, conveying only his clear blue of love for Christine.

She ached with similar love, and she felt the familiar longing intensify a hundred times. Her legs trembled; her cheeks flushed slightly; she gazed only into Erik's eyes and thought of nothing but him.

Father Nicolas cleared his throat, breaking the passionate intensity of the silence.

"Let the wedding commence," he said clearly, smiling softly at Christine, and then at Erik.

* * *

_A cloud-white crown of pearl she dight._

_All raimented in snowy white_

_That loosely flew, (her zone in sight,_

_Clasped with one blinding diamond bright,)_

_Her wide eyes fixed_

On her proud Erik, who stood tall beside the smiling priest, tears shining on his joyful face.

* * *

It was not the conventional wedding eternally dreamt of by young girls. It had been a fairytale romance, and the beauty was now to marry her unconventional prince, which, as any young girl would agree, was perpetually better. And so, as Christine, grasping the hand of a weeping Madame Giry, followed Meg to the front of the room, her other hand held a single rose to her heart.

The ceremony passed in a daze of joy; for as soon as Erik had taken Christine's hand from Madame Giry, all she could do was stare into his eyes, overcome with love and the sensation of his skin on hers. His gloves had been happily discarded for the occasion.

Christine's heart beat ever faster as the ceremony continued, and finally, as Father Nicolas asked Erik to say his vows, and as she watched him extract a golden ring from his waistcoat pocket, she could hardly breathe.

"I do," he said finally, his voice thick with emotion, and Christine offered him her shaking hand, which he held tenderly, pushing the ring gently onto her finger.

If her engagement ring had been a source of joy for her, it could hardly compare to this slender, delicate, wonderful gold band! Christine could have kissed it. She could have kissed the man who gave it to her forever.

And so she waited almost impatiently for the priest to turn to her, to smile softly in recognition of the poor child's wonderful happiness, to prompt her into her vows. Finally-

"_C'est toi pour qui mon coeur bats_," Christine said softly, gazing deeply into Erik's brimming eyes.

As the audible sniffling of the two women watching the ceremony grew louder still, Father Nicolas pronounced the radiant couple man and wife, and a glowing Christine leant up for the long awaited kiss, but-

-with a sudden movement, Erik stepped backwards, screwing up his face in determination, and pulled off his mask with a shaking hand!

Christine gaped, the neglected kiss forgotten, and a new flood of tears raced to her eyes, but then her angel swept back towards her and embraced her tenderly, lifting her chin and gazing into her eyes with a pride that could never be rivalled.

A smile sparkled amongst her tears, and Christine wrapped her arms around Erik's neck, leaning in for her first kiss as a wife.

"It is all for you, Christine."

* * *

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)_

_i am never without it (anywhere i go you go, my dear;_

_and whatever is done only by me is your doing, my darling)_

_i fear_

_no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet); i_

_want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)_

_and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant_

_and whatever a sun will always sing is _

_you_

_here is the deepest secret nobody knows_

_(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_

_and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows_

_higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)_

_and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart_

_i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

* * *

_

**A/N: And that was the (true, proper, BETTER) story of Christine and her angel. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing every chapter! **

**Grosses bises to all my reviewers, since that first rather short chapter until the fluffy end, and thanks to everyone who read the whole story! **

**I won't be able to write another story until the Christmas holidays, due to the horribly hectic nature of this year. If you feel so inclined, please take a look at my other phics:**

**_Angel of Mute_, a humorous phic including an extremely foppish Raoul, Erik without his precious voice, bongo drums and a kilt. **

**_First Kiss for Two_: a two-part fluffy piece altering the scene where Christine rips of Erik's mask in the musical. **

**_Her Father Promised Her_: An incomplete phic that I probably shouldn't mention. It turned out that this story took up most of my E/C energy this last year. :) **

**Thanks guys! And if you live in Australia, feel secure in the knowledge that I will be going to the opening night of Phantom in Melbourne in my formal dress. **

**Hope to see you there!**

**Froody**


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